Tag Archives: motherhood

From my Calvin

From my Calvin

Calvin and I are walking down the street.  We are headed toward his speech therapist’s office.  It was about 5 o’clock and there was a lot of traffic.  I instinctively moved Calvin to the inside of the sidewalk so I would walk closest to the passing cars.

Calvin:  “Why did you push me over Mommy?”

Me: “Well, if a car jumps the curb, I want it to hit me, not you.”

Calvin:  “No! You might die!”

Me:  “That’s right, which is why you need to be over there and I need to be over here.”

Calvin:  “But if you die, who will take care of my brothers?  I need to die.  My brothers need a mommy.”

Where does that come from?  Calvin and his beautiful brain.

The price of peace

The price of peace

Target, the parking lot.  Me and my troops.

“OK,” I say generously, evenly, not betraying my entire lack of confidence in what I’m about to say.  “We are going inside Target.  We are going to do this fast.  I have a headache.  We are late.  You have been awful for the last hour and it ends now or no movie, no pizza, no fun.  We will leave.  Understand?”

Three heads bob in affirmation from the backseat.

“OK, hit it.”

We are out of the car and walking with purpose.  First stop:  Alleve.  I really do have a headache.  While I am calculating cost per pill for the economy size, they start in.  Sam has decided to push over all the pill boxes.  Calvin decided to discipline him.  I grab the largest box imaginable and escape to the pizze aisle.  Cost to keep Calvin from corporally punishing Sam:  $15.75.

Here things got weird.  All three boys want a different four cheese pizza.  Like the difference is nuanced and discernible to a boy who picks his nose.  A small skirmish breaks out and Calvin says if we don’t get his pizza he’s not going to eat – ever.  Jack says he must have rising crust because the other is flat like cardboard.  Sam says he must have the thin smear of tomato sauce between the cheese topping and the crust just like in the picture or he’ll throw up.  I can’t take it.  All three pizzas go in.  Cost to avert vomit:  $18.00.

Off to dvds in spite of my threats.  This is only because we are going to the Boyfriend Candidate’s house and if the kids don’t have something kid-like to do they will act like themselves and I can’t have that.  All the moveis stink and we already have every other G/PG film out there.  We end up with two B level movies.  Why? Because they are fighting about it, playing two against one games.  “We want the owl movie, and two against one.  We win.”  The older boys taunting the baby.  I got both movies.  Cost to avoid years of therapy for Sam: $45.

At this point, I want out.  I need to get these belligerent, ill-behaved, disrespectful, spiteful angels over to the BC’s house where he’s likely to take one look at all of the chaos and reconsider his relationship with me.  The evening has taken a turn for the crazy and it hasn’t started yet.

Going into Target I thought we’d do a quick driveby.  $30 and done.  Nope.  Keeping the peace cost right under $100.  A babysitter would have been a helluva lot cheaper.  And I might have maintained my sanity.

The problem solver with no problems

The problem solver with no problems

The Boyfriend Candidate is starting to unnerve me.  And it boils down to this: he is a problem solver and I really don’t have problems for him to solve.  Of course, there is a touch of control freak in there too – but that’s for another day.  His solutions end up being the only solutions.

There was a time when I was a walking problem factory.  Those days are gone and what’s left is your garden variety, typical functioning single mom.  There are all the typical things, but nothing extraordinary and nothing I can’t handle  Alone.  By myself.  With absolute confidence.

A few days ago I had a rough morning with the boys.  I gingerly, with some apprehension, mention this to the BC.  I want to talk about my feelings, frustrations.  And he says to me, with sincerely earnestness, “Well, it’s not surprising.  Your life is shit.  You are alone.  And those boys know they outnumber you.  You have no power.  Of course you feel that way.”

Uh… wtf?

Then he tried to solve my problem.  The problem he made up, defined and identified.

“What you need are better parenting techniques.”  Then this man with zero children expounded upon the many techniques I could endeavor to apply.  “Have you heard of something called ‘time out’?”  Oh jeez.  Or this one, “I’ve read that positive reinforcement can provide a road map to better behavior.  A child told what not to do may not know what to do.”  For crying out loud.

And my feelings were never discussed.  I realized then that I almost never get what I need from this man.  He’s a wonderful man, but he hands me a chainsaw when I need a Band-aid.  It’s interesting, the rush to solve a problem that doesn’t exist, all the while an opportunity for intimacy is waiting.  Let’s talk about my vulnerability and disappointment… in my own children.  That’s big.

The ideal response from the BC would have been something like “You’re feeling under-appreciated.  I appreciate you and one day your kids will too.” I probably would have cried and believed that he saw into my soul.

Nope, the moment passed him right by.  But he managed to walk away self-satisfied.

Star Wars and Martin Luther King

Star Wars and Martin Luther King

I never did figure out how to celebrate this holiday.  So I’m making the regular activities of the day fit a theme.  It’s backwards, but dammit, I have a New Year’s Resolution to keep!

So I’m sorting Legos.  I’m sure I’ll write more about Legos at some point.  I love them.  Obsess about them.  They teach me and inspire me.  I’m serious.

But the sorting is a chore.  I have a system: small Legos, large Legos, flat Legos, and then obscure and large sized ones.  Most colors have four boxes each which are divided in this way.  About the size of a shoe box so you can tell right off I have thousands of Legos.

Unfortunately this is a bit backwards for the holiday because I am segregating the Legos.  Right now I have three bowls of integrated Legos and I can’t have that.  They must be separated – then further separated by size.  So since I’m backwards on this holiday any way, I guess it’s ok to not let the red and gray Legos mingle.  We will have none of that!  Separate but equal in the Land of Legos.

My goal with this particular sort is to get through the whites and reds because I want to make two Star Wars X-Wing ships.  I’ve been going through my favorite projects.  I’m particularly interested to know whether or not I still have all the pieces.

Once the kids get their hands on my Legos there is no telling where the pieces go.  They actually play with them.  It drives me crazy.

Merry Christmas my children, I give you me

Merry Christmas my children, I give you me

This Christmas I decided to give my children my office.  I’m completely redecorating with desks and bookshelves, lots of space for school projects and floor to ceiling whiteboards.  It’s costing more money than I have , but it really has to be done.  My kids are struggling at school.

I openly stressed about the money and the transition to my mother over the holidays.  She completely missed my bigger issues which makes sense because she is a woman of another generation.  My open stressing rendered no support, instead some small condemnation.

My mother suggested I was redecorating because I like to do that sort of thing.  She suggested that I not make financial expenditures which could deprive my children.  This was merely a luxury I should forego.

She was missing big points and I couldn’t convince her otherwise.  She was a stay at home mom most of her life.  She married my dad when she was 21 and raising children was all she ever knew.

My kids have me for only a couple of hours every night – for homework, dinner, chat and cuddling.  They are now at an age where they need space to open books and make projects. The three of them share a single, small bedroom. They need my office space more than I do.  My single, imposing desk which accommodates one will not help the four of us muddle through the three Rs.  No question:  they need a functioning room and the expense is just one of those things I’m going to have to shoulder.

But the bigger heartache in all this is losing my office.  I had an occupation and a profession which gave me satisfaction and independence.  I had barely begun marketing myself and enjoying the thrill that comes with building a business.  I’m turning my back on that, giving it away to the three people I love the most who depend on me for everything. . . and it hurts.  It hurts to realize I’m not that zippy independent professional I once thought I could be.  Calling the shots from my seat of power, making things happen and influencing the world.  I’m simply not important in that way and handing off my office seals that fate and acknowledges my own impotence in the adult world of movers and shakers.  It’s really quite sad.  I could feel like a failure except that I see this step as one toward creating success in other areas, other more important areas, like the development of children.

This really is their time.  I suspect my time is over, my arc has ended.  Whatever chances I had to “be something” have now dissolved except in ways that pertain to or at least include consideration of the kids.  I’m really ok with that.  It’s an adjustment period certainly, but I feel triumphant in that it was a hard decision. . .  and I only hesitated about two days to make it.

All he wants for Christmas are his three front teeth

All he wants for Christmas are his three front teeth

Christmas light update:  they are still working.  I think we have a truce.

My youngest son, when he was about a year old, was going up the bunk bed ladder and fell down.  His mouth took the brunt of the fall and probably hit more than a couple steps on the way down.  By the time I got to his screaming little self there was blood gushing from his mouth.  I could see his top front teeth positioned in completely unnatural ways.  I had visions of the ER and a long night with a suffering baby.

I paged the pediatric dentist.  She called me back right away even though she was at a cocktail party.  She told me just to move the teeth back where they belonged.  I was stunned.  I was actually driving the car around in circles not knowing if I needed to meet her at her office or go to the hospital.  Instead she sent me home.

I did as I was told and it worked.  I put the teeth back.  Got a cold compress and saved his teeth.  For about two years.  Then he came home from daycare, smiled and his upper teeth were gone.  They had broken at the gum line.  No one saw how or when it happened.  He didn’t have an accident.  I can only assume they were fractured from the long ago fall and that was the day they decided to fall out.

The roots of those teeth had to be removed.  The broken bits were sharp.  Which Sam misunderstood to mean “shark” like he had “shark teeth” which wasn’t an entirely bad description.  We were at a maxillofacial surgeon’s office to get that done.  They don’t like using general anesthesia on babies so they used all locals to remove the teeth.  Sam takes after me in that he does not respond to painkillers.  The meds didn’t really work.  He didn’t dose off and he screamed like murder during the procedure.  The roots of these baby teeth were half an inch long.  The doctors had to physically pull me from the room while I was screaming I had a right to be with my minor son.

My now ex-husband told me I needed to mind the doctors.  I was disruptive, a distraction.  I should have divorced him then.

When my son was in recovery I went in.  He was literally like a caged feral animal.  He hissed at me.  The nurses told me not to worry because the meds caused a type of amnesia.  He wouldn’t remember a thing.  But I would.  I toss an imaginary grenade every time I drive by that office.

All of this is to explain why my son doesn’t speak well:  he has no upper teeth.   And because of that he says the cutest things.  He can’t say “you’re welcome”  for instance.  It comes out “I’m Malcolm.”

“Thank you Sam!”

“I’m Malcolm Mama!”

I just love that.  That’s really all I wanted to say.

Next time I go naked

Next time I go naked

I went to the Boyfriend Candidate’s house the other night.  I think the relationship is getting stale, and I’m concerned.

I walk in his door, granted the three kids are in tow.  Also I must say, he was sick and I was having neck pain.  We are old indeed.

I call out, “Hello?” And the three kids start calling out his name.  We go to the living room.  Empty.  The playroom.  Nothing.  On to the kitchen.  Here we find him.  He is reading the Economist, glasses at the end of his nose.  He delivers this heart-felt welcome.  “Oh hi.  I didn’t hear you come in.”

I have problems with this and if the kids hadn’t been bouncing around the kitchen, I would have called him out.  Not hear us?  We are a herd; that’s not possible.  There was a time when he would have been sitting on the front porch looking for me, waiting for me with some anticipation.

He didn’t even stand up.  It was disappointing and hurtful in the way you would expect, but I immediately went to the bigger picture.  Do I want to come home to a guy who doesn’t stand up and embrace me?  My marriage degraded over the course of 20 years into that kind of nonchalance and mutual apathy.  What does it say that that the BC and I have already hit that mark?

Then again, I know I should give him a break.  He’s sick.  I’m edgy.  The children can have a numbing effect.

Next time I may have to walk in naked and check his response.  Then I’ll know if I’m really in trouble.

To wake, perchance to exercise

To wake, perchance to exercise

I was thinking this morning, as I hit the snooze button for the second time, that my good and bad days are determined by one key event: getting out of bed.

To be more precise, getting out of bed when the alarm actually goes off.  For the first time.

It’s psychological and also physiological.  If I get out of bed when I’m suppose to at 4:45am I have an immediate sense of accomplishment.  I did it, I got out from under the covers! I can do anything!

After that I make coffee and get on the treadmill.  I’m taking care of myself, increasing my metabolism, burning calories, and waking up the engine that will power my day.  I can listen to Bill Handel and his morning crew and nothing makes me smile like an irreverent cynic with great sound bites.  He’s an equal opportunity offender and I am in love with him.

I pound out two miles, sometimes I even run for some interval training, and I’m good to shower and beautify.  Then, with the extra time, I can make my lunch and fix myself a couple of boiled eggs.  I can safely and cleanly eat these as I drive to work.  As everyone in LA knows, you have to multi-task when you drive or it’s a missed opportunity.

All of this happens while the children sleep.  I’m alone.  I’m uninterrupted.  I’m self-indulgent while still being responsible.  It’s truly the best feeling and tees me up for a productive day.  Sometimes I even have time to accessorize!

Mind you, I’m having this epiphany while continuing to hit the snooze button.

You know, maybe every day is too big a reach.  Maybe I need a day off so my muscles can recover.  I heard that somewhere.  So every other day might be more realistic.  I could live with good days 50% of the time.

And that’s about the time I notice I’ve “overslept” about 15 minutes and now I’m late.

But it’s totally worth it because of the invaluable epiphany.  I can’t wait to see what my epiphany will be tomorrow.

The anti-girlfriend

The anti-girlfriend

So I announced to the Boyfriend Candidate that I would never be his girlfriend.  When I start thinking like “girlfriend” I start thinking like a twenty-something and putting all those expectations on him that just don’t matter to a forty-something.  He was oddly disappointed.

He said he liked to think of me as his girlfriend and didn’t understand the issue with semantics.  But whatever.  I should do what I need to do if it means we can still hang out together.

And ever since then, he’s been acting like a boyfriend on steroids.  I’ve never had such a great boyfriend at a time when I especially am not looking for one.  Right now, he is in the other room nursing my sick 12 year old, tolerating my 9 year old’s need to watch South Park and politely telling the 6 year old not to pick his nose.  It’s an interaction that any mother could relate to, but not a mere mortal of no blood relation.

The BC actually left work early last week to check on my sick son.  I was at work myself and couldn’t leave so he checked it out.  He brought my son a sandwich and stayed with him until I got home.  My ex-husband during our seventeen years of marriage never did anything like that.

I’m confused.  If this is “boyfriend” then maybe I should be his “girlfriend”.  If this is “man trying to convince me that boyfriend is not such a bad idea therefore I should be his girlfriend then after he proves his point he goes back to being average guy”, then he can never be my boyfriend.

It’s all so confusing.

Forget it; he still won’t be my boyfriend.

Twelve and counting

Twelve and counting

My son turns twelve today.  As I type have ten boys running unrestrained and untethered in my house, junked up on caffeine, chocolate and the adrenaline of a post-Nerf war victory.  I’d be lying if I said there was anything unusual about that.  My three boys all by themselves can create quite a lot of noise and mayhem.

It is time for reflection.  Twelve years.  What the hell?  I’ve never had anything for twelve years.  Not a plant, a dog, even my husband, one could argue, punched out long before we got to twelve years.  Of all things I might imagine myelf to have for twelve years – a car for instance, maybe a mattress – I would never have imagined a human being.  And my son seems happy to have me.  Of course I gave him a PS3 with ensures (and insures!) his devotion so I can’t be sure how sincere his undying affection is, but I really don’t care.  I have it.

So tonight, I’ll listen to him and his friends scream like girls, echoing down the streets of the neighborhood.  In a year or two they won’t sound like little girls any more so I’m going to enjoy this before they get neck deep in testosterone.  They are a great group of boys.  I’m not concerned about a single one of them.  We’re really fortunate.  I have a beautiful boy who made me a grateful mom.  I love him in ways that can’t be expressed.

A year or two ago, I was really worried about his life and how it might turn out.  Not any more.  I’ve got it covered.  And for those times when I’m not there, his trusted friends and their families will be.  All things considered, it’s good to turn twelve.