Second Guessing

He’s sitting over there in front of the television; blanket over his head, mowing down dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets. He’s happy as can be, dipping his nuggets into ketchup, eyes fixed on Rescuebots. Today is a special day. I have allowed him to eat his lunch in front of the television, something I NEVER do.

He squealed with delight when I moved his little table in front of the TV screen and set his plate down. “Mama! Why do I get to eat my lunch here?” he questioned. I told him it was because I love him. He grinned and took his seat.

As I looked over at my happy (and quiet, for once) little boy, I realized what a grave mistake I had just made. I just told him he got to do something special because I love him. Now, what am I going to do on all the other days (which will likely be all days until the end of time) that he is NOT allowed to eat his lunch in front of the TV? Is he going to think that I love him less on those days, or will he understand the value of a recently vacuumed floor? Is three years old too young to grasp “special occasions”, even if those special occasions are simply random Tuesdays when Mommy is in a good mood?

Here I am, thinking I’ve given my kid a treat, and really I may have just led him down a path of entitlement. Really, I may have just ruined all future meal times for the rest of his childhood life. Maybe he will think I only love him when he gets special privileges. All this worrying now, because I moved that damn table. This is just another one of the million moments in parenthood when seemingly simple actions result in hours of second guessing and wondering if you’ve got it figured out yet…

….Which I do not.

Make You Feel My Love

When I was pregnant with Harrison, I used to play him a song. I think this is common practice for lots of moms. I didn’t do it because playing music is supposed to make your babies geniuses. For that, I figure we’d just hold our breath and hope for the best. That song, Adele’s “Make You Feel My Love”, has one line in it that I had to listen to over and over.

Somehow, this song came up in conversation with Harrison a few days ago, and now he asks me to play him “his song” over and over. He even asks me to sing it. I.Cannot.Sing. But he loves it. I will continue this practice until he just cannot even take the sound of my tone-deaf voice anymore. And then I’ll pray that he will dance with me to that song on his wedding day.

I know you haven’t made your mind up yet, but I would never do you wrong.

Because I’m a chronic worrier, I was scared to death for the entirety of my pregnancy that something would go wrong and I would not have my little guy to hold and love come July. (Never mind the fact that, during delivery, three weeks ahead of time, when I was quite literally bleeding to death due to a placental abruption, I was not concerned one bit…but I digress…) That line hit me because I didn’t know if he had made his mind up to join me on the outside. I knew, though, that I’d be here if he did, and I would be the luckiest woman in the world to have him in my arms. Like the song says:

 I could hold you for a million years.

The thing is, I don’t ever stop worrying, save for that one time when I should have been slightly concerned about whether I’d survive childbirth. People I love and care about have lost children in the short time that I’ve been a parent. I have to say it doesn’t hit you when you’re childless the way it does when you have little ones of your own. I have seen moms grieve for their babies, and it’s a vision and feeling I cannot shake. Even when this loss happens on the television, the thought of those moms and dads losing their children stays with me for weeks. I once had to Google the outcome of Sons of Anarchy to find out if Jax Teller’s child was going to return home after his kidnapping (He did, and if that was a spoiler for you, you are way behind.)

I worry about car seats, and grapes that aren’t cut small enough, and poisoning and drowning and disease. But then they’re going to grow up, and it’s not choking on food, or walking out in the middle of a busy street anymore. It’s college and partying, and broken hearts, and failure. Just the other day, there was a news story about drug abuse that featured parents who lost children to heroin. Justin looked at me and said, “That is one thing I worry about in our town. There is quite a bit of drug use here among teens.” Excellent, dear. I wasn’t worried enough already. And all along, I know there are thousands of other dangers that I haven’t even thought of yet. And what about me! Every SINGLE time I get in my car without the kids, I wonder if I’ll make it back safe. Every health ailment is a warning that my time with my babies is limited and precious.

I shared these worries with one of my less anxious friends one time. She said, “Katie, you can worry all you want. You can come up with millions of scenarios. But it’s just wasting the time you DO have to love your child.” She was right. Do I still worry? Of course. I have a list of things to worry about just so I don’t run out. But when all is said and done, I will know that Harrison knew these were the words I wanted him to remember:

I’ve known it from the moment that we met 

There’s no doubt in my mind where you belong

I’d go hungry I’d go black and blue

No, there’s nothing in the world I wouldn’t do

To make you feel my love 

Because all we can do is be the best parents we know how to be in each moment that we are lucky enough to have our children in our arms.

This is Halloween

Today’s temper tantrum is sponsored by the Inadequate Halloween Costume. Apparently this is a thing. Apparently kids decide THE DAY before Halloween (or two days, or the day of, or whatever) that their Halloween costume is not worthy of wear.

Since we are such clairvoyant parents, we thought it would be best to wait until the last minute to purchase a Halloween costume for our dear boy. We kind of saw this coming with Harrison, as his antics have long predicted that he might be capable of such unhappy despair. He has been talking about being a dinosaur for months. We looked at costumes online for hours, but none seemed to match his refined tastes. There was brief mention of a skeleton, and I think Justin tried to talk him into being Donald Trump one night. We had a backup pirate costume in case something came up, but Harrison made it clear that he did not want to be a pirate. Well, since we were out of town earlier in the week, the kids’ preschool teacher sent me a message last night telling me the kids would be wearing costumes today for a parade. No problem, though, right, because I’m Super Prepared Mom, and we had those good old pirate costumes on deck waiting for a purpose. I retrieved aforementioned costumes from the depths of the basement last night and set them out nicely, so our morning would go smoothly, and we could just bound off to preschool when everyone was up and ready.

Harrison, that kid, you know, he’s always one step ahead of me. Although I had a perfectly wonderful getup for him, he was in a fit because he didn’t have a dinosaur costume. I explained tirelessly that it was not Halloween, that this was just a fun thing to do at school, and that we were still going to get a dinosaur costume. This wasn’t good enough. In fact, he decided that he’d be upset that he had to wear clothes at all to school. And, that, my friends, is why I showed up to preschool with a child who was half dressed. (On a side note, I also threatened to cancel Halloween, but I was talked out of it by a good friend who reminded me that you simply do not cancel Halloween this early in the game. Save that shit for when he’s seven.)

But it gets better. I DID take my boy to get his costume. We went to the special Halloween store and everything. We perused the aisles until I found the ONLY dinosaur costume in his size. And guess what? It was beautiful. It was a T-rex costume that would scare the socks off of any other preschooler on the block.

Losing My Mind

I am quite literally losing my mind. I am getting dumber by the minute. I’m going to go ahead and attribute this drastic decrease in brain function to the fact that my day revolved around peanut butter sandwiches and nap schedules. Yes, that’s right. My children are making me stupid. I have a few key events that have led me to believe I am no longer the quick, smart young whippersnapper I once was.

Here’s the first one: I suggested to my mother in law that we meet for lunch. She named the town, I picked the restaurant. Except the restaurant I chose was not in that town. And I know this. But why, then, did I drive to aforementioned town anyway? Why did I completely forget that a restaurant I frequently visit was in a different town, and proceed to drive AWAY from it? Luckily, my mother in law loves me enough to overlook my geographical ineptitude.

Speaking of geography, I had another mishap just this morning driving back to Bath. Now, for those of you who don’t know, we just moved from Bath to Boothbay, which is a mere 35 minute drive. I take this drive at least three times a week. So, why then, did I go down the wrong road without realizing it for FIFTEEN minutes?? After dropping the kids off at daycare, I headed to Bath for a meeting. I was enjoying the foliage, and I noticed how pretty the scenery was. When I questioned myself on whether or not I recognized the buildings I passed by, I assumed I had just never noticed them, since I’m usually driving around with the kids and they are highly distracting individuals.

And finally, what’s putting me over the edge here is my new love for the television show, Scandal. Thanks to that show, I have two serious problems: A) All I do in my free time is binge watch Netflix and B) I believe everything is a conspiracy. I refused to let the doctor give my kids flu shots yesterday because I had to “look into it”. This was not odd in itself, except we have given the kids flu shots all along. I also had a panic attack about the fluoride treatments the dentist prescribed to Harrison.

So, what is it?? Am I not getting enough sleep? Does stay at home motherhood do this to everyone? Do I need to get out and find other human beings who don’t spend their days chasing around tiny humans? Hopefully I’ll find my direction soon-both literally and figuratively.

Pictures that Don’t Need Words

I Stand With Ahmed

Lots of hubbub is going on right now around the young Ahmed Mohamed, a 14 year old student living in Texas who brought a homemade clock to school, only to be arrested because his teachers and the police believed it to be a bomb.

Ahmed’s cousin says he’s a genius at that kind of stuff. Ahmed’s dad says he’s brilliant. Ahmed says he made a clock. And he said that several times, which the authorities deemed “uncooperative”. I call it redundant.

The thing is, I’ve taught in public schools for ten years. Lots and lots of kids. Lots and lots of Muslim kids, to be quite frank. I could have been that teacher, that English teacher who called the principal, who then called the police, who then handcuffed him, interrogated him, and wouldn’t let him call his parents.

I can’t tell you that I wouldn’t be alarmed if I saw a kid pull a box with a bunch of wires out of his backpack. I also can’t tell you that I would think to be alarmed. One day, several years back, my teaching partner (a former U.S. Marine) had to call a Code Red, or Code Yellow, or whatever, because he saw (from about 200 feet away) a parent walk in to the building with a gun on a holster. Turns out this parent was a victim of domestic violence who felt the need for protection, came to pick up her kid, and forgot it was there. If I remember correctly, it was also unloaded. (If you’re wondering, that’s still not allowed!) I left that day thinking I was glad John was my teaching partner because God knows I wouldn’t have noticed a gun on someone’s hip unless they were right smack in front of me. It was a good thing SOMEONE was looking out for us all. That lady wasn’t arrested. She was questioned in the principal’s office, and sent home, with a reminder to not bring her gun when she picks up her child.

It’s not that I’m ignorant. I’m also not unobservant. Sometimes I’m just too busy teaching my students, learning who they are as people, to notice anything else. I have a feeling a teacher like me might have noticed the sparkle in Ahmed’s eyes coming from the pride he felt at his creation before noticing his clock looks vaguely like something I might see on NCIS.

On days like this, I know my former colleagues and I would have a lot of conversations about Ahmed. We had students who could have been Ahmed. As a matter of fact, I know that I have had at least one student who shares that same name. Even though I’m out of the classroom now, I am still a teacher, and I have to weigh in: Why wasn’t Ahmed afforded the same treatment that the mother who HAD AN ACTUAL GUN had? Why wasn’t he asked, simply, to not bring in things that some hyper-vigilant teachers might consider bombs?

Now I weigh in as a mom: Thanks, teacher for considering the safety of your students. But how can you call yourself a teacher with such a closed mind? Did he tell you it was a clock? Yes. Did it turn out to be a clock when it was tested? Yes. No student is going to open his or her mind and heart to you if you can’t see the true beauty and intelligence in a young mind when its product is literally sitting there on your desk. And to reach my kids, to reach any kids, that’s what you need: their open hearts and minds.

A Fixer Upper

It was much anticipated. It was dreaded. It was inevitable. It was Harrison’s first trip to the dentist. I didn’t know how it possibly could go well, so I employed a “fake it til you make it” approach. We talked it up; there would be cool tools (he asked if the dentist had a tape measure…), there would be all kinds of flavors of toothpaste (“Can you tell me all the flavors again?”), and there would probably be prizes at the end.

Well, dear readers, I regret to inform you that Harrison did just fine at the dentist and there was absolutely nothing noteworthy about his appointment. I was really hoping for some fantastic blogging material to blossom out of this major life event, however, he really let us down. He acted like a normal, civilized human being the entire time. He got to look at the cool tools (no tape measure), he picked out bubblegum toothpaste, and, indeed, he got some great prizes at the end.

It was within these great prizes that a story is found. Inside Harrison’s goodie bag, he received typical dentist parting gifts, such as a toothbrush and dental floss. There were also various dollar store trinkets in there, including a rubber stretchy frog. From the moment he was gifted this gem, it remained in his hand. We even had to name it (James) and make it a bed. It requested an extra cup of milk upon waking up and hot dogs for breakfast (that request was denied).

A mere 21 hours after this new favorite toy came into Harrison’s possession, tragedy struck. While I was quietly sipping my coffee, I heard Harrison wailing from the top of the stairs. Not at all worried that something actually serious was wrong, I flew up the stairs to comfort him because Ella was still asleep and I didn’t want him to wake her. When I retrieved him from the steps in a puddle of tears, he blubbered that his frog had lost its arm. In other words, he pulled his frog’s arm so hard that it fell off.

Since I am obviously very crafty and intelligent, I knew I could right this wrong. Actually, I tried to tell Harrison that he could still love his frog even if it only had one arm, but apparently we haven’t reached the point of childhood development where beauty comes in all shapes and sizes. So, back to being crafty and intelligent, I pulled out the medicine box and got to work.

The first thing I did was cut a toothpick to make a tiny splint so that I could reattach the frog’s arm with medical tape. This was a fantastic plan, but it immediately fell off once I wrapped it.

Then I decided that this frog’s dire situation required his arm to be in a sling.

You guys. I seriously thought I was brilliant. I explained to Harrison that his frog needed to rest like this until his arm healed. I figured that he would tire of the frog before he realized that I didn’t in fact have a medical degree and that dollar store toys were not meant to be repaired. Unfortunately, 3 year old boys do not know how to play gently and the frog’s arm soon became dislodged from my fantastic sling.

Have you ever stitched together a rubber frog? Because I have. Now. Now, I have. Out of complete necessity I repaired my son’s current prized possession with a needle and thread. Much to my mother’s dismay, my cleverness and craftiness does not stretch to sewing, however, I think I did a pretty good job. You can BARELY tell that this frog has been repaired. Justin asked me when the stitches were going to come out, to which I responded with an evil glare, because Harrison then turned hopefully to me to see when his frog should return to the infirmary of our kitchen counter for the removal of sutures. Never. The stitches are never coming  out.

James the frog rested peacefully in its own bed, full on hot dogs (wish was granted for lunch) and tater tots after a long day of playing in its new pond (the baby pool in our front yard) and going on several tractor rides with a prime spot right between the handle bars of Harrison’s ride on toy. Apparently this toy isn’t going to lose its luster after a few hours, even if it does have permanent stitches.

In the Right Place

Today would have been my first day of school had I gone back to work instead of becoming a stay at home mom. Sometimes I really miss work, especially when I think about my former students and colleagues. Sometimes I really miss work when my own kids are screaming and I haven’t had a hot cup of coffee or a moment of peace in weeks. Today, I stepped back to look at what I had gained with my new lifestyle.

There was no rushed morning. There was no trying to get dressed for work while two toddlers were clamoring for treasures in my makeup drawer. There was no forcing down a quick breakfast before we flew out the door. There was no searching to see if the bags I packed contained everything we all needed to make it through the day.

There was Harrison in my lap, with his blanket, watching cartoons and drinking milk.

There was Ella, sleeping until 8am and quietly waking up, cooing sweet sounds from her crib.

There I was, able to fix a beloved toy for a devastated little boy. There was his smile when the tiny frog’s arm had been reattached.

There we were, lapping up another summer day outside in the kiddie pool. There we were, drawing pictures on the driveway with chalk. There we were, playing tag in our front yard. There we were, laughing hysterically at the funny faces we took turns making over lunch.

There was Harrison, asking for snuggles after his nap, and falling back asleep in my arms as I took in the scent of baby shampoo from his freshly washed hair. I stared at his pink cheeks and inky eyelashes, peaceful and content and beautiful.

There was Ella, discovering her world with delight-collecting rocks, hiding potato chips behind the couch, babbling new words and sounds all the while.

Sometimes I worry about my retirement fund, which is basically nonexistent, and think I should get back to work to fix that. Sometimes I worry that I won’t be able to get back to work because teaching jobs around here for an English teacher aren’t exactly a dime a dozen. Then I have days like this, when I know I’m in the right place, doing the right thing.

The Day Before the Day

I knew moving to a new home with two small children was going to be an adventure to say the least. We’ve had lots of adjustments over the past two weeks, but the day before our closing was the most stressful of all so far.

It’s been said that children can sense your emotions, and I’m no expert on hiding mine in the first place, so we were all on edge the day before THE DAY. Unbeknownst to me, Justin had spent the entire day on the phone with the mortgage company and lawyer as they finalized things for our closing. At one point, it wasn’t even going to happen.

I was up to my ears in boxes, and at 3:36pm, the phone rang. I had just gotten Ella down for her first nap of the day, and Justin was calling to tell me that I needed to go to the bank RIGHT NOW to get our check for closing. The only problem, he said, was that he was having trouble transferring the money to my account. (No, why on earth would we have joint accounts? That would be too easy…)

So, I grab a cranky Ella out of her bed, throw the kids in the car and race to the bank. I think I forgot to mention that it closed at four. It was a miracle that we even arrived on time. I had the wherewithal to grab some lollipops from the counter immediately upon entering and stick them into the kids’ mouths. “Sit over there,” I said. “Play with the toys. Be quiet.” Ha!

I tried to explain to the teller that I needed a cashier’s check for a bazillion dollars by closing today, but the money wasn’t exactly in my account. You can imagine how this went over. Meanwhile, Justin was trying fervently to call me and call the bank so he could transfer the funds to my account. Around the same time, I noticed that one employee was locking the doors from the inside. Surely we wouldn’t have time to get this check.

During this whole debacle, the bank manager comes out, and tries to iron out the details of my situation. She ended up getting on the phone with Justin (who was at work 45 minutes away) to help the transfer move along. I looked behind me and saw Harrison racing from one end of the bank to the other on the pristine white floor tiles. Ella was toddling around with purple lollipop spit dripping from her chin. This then reminded me that I had given them lollipops. I noticed that she had set hers on the fuzzy chair in the waiting area, only to be picked up second later, lint and all going right back into her mouth. The toy section I had instructed the children to stay within was destroyed; books and balls were now littering the empty bank’s floors.

Ella, enamored by the radio on the floor in a corner, began an elaborate dance routine to pass the time. Smiling at my little princess, I turned around to pay attention to what the bank teller was trying to explain to me. A few moments later he looked over my shoulder and raised his eyebrows. I looked back and saw nothing else but Ella standing atop the radio. By the time I could race over to rescue her (she did NOT think she needed rescuing), she had turned the volume up full blast.

And because you’re all wondering what Harrison was doing during this particular performance of Ella’s, well, of course he was swinging from the ropes that distinguish the waiting line, singing along to whatever song it was that Ella was playing so loudly. I grabbed his hand and made him stand beside me. In response to this, he began swinging my arm. He then decided that yelling, “TITTIES! TITTIES!! TITTIES!!” would be an appropriate addition to the entertainment he was providing us all. I don’t know why he was yelling titties. I don’t know if he knows what titties are, but the bank tellers sure did.

I escaped the bank, check in hand, children in tow, embarrassment aplenty, thirty minutes after the place closed. A thank you note went out to the kind people who were able to assist me in my ever so complicated transaction. Hopefully they won’t remember me the next time I go in there.

Pictures that Don’t Need Words

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