playgroupsarenoplaceforchildren

Carson and I have been butting heads for the past few…well, actually forever. We go through stages where all’s well, but those times seem to be few and far between. The past few weeks have been particularly trying, to say the least. I keep not so jokingly telling people that I don’t know if Carson ever truly had colic as a newborn or if he was just born difficult for the sake of being difficult. Everyone reminds me that he’s only four, but sometimes his behavior is so disrespectful and shocking that I think, “Only four? No wonder I’m exhausted, I’ve been dealing with this for FOUR years.”

Today when I picked Carson up from school, his teacher told me that he had worked very carefully on their art project.   He handed it to me, as proud as I’ve ever seen him, beaming from ear to ear.

“I made it for you, Mommy.”

I wonder if he knew that it was exactly what I needed?

I lay awake for hours last night, my stomach in knots, my head spinning, as I contemplated the State of our Marriage.  Tate and I seem to drift further and further apart, both of us in the wrong.  Or at least that’s what I should say on my blog since he’s not here to defend himself.

As the minutes of the still night turned into hours of a panicked night, I grew angrier and angrier as Tate seemed to rest easily, completely unaware that there is even a crack in the State of our Marriage.  Maybe it didn’t even matter that he was sleeping.  Even when he’s awake I haven’t felt like we could really have a heart to heart conversation anyway.  I am continually on a quest to improve myself, as a mother and a wife, trying to figure out ways to hold my tongue and not break every marriage confrontation rule in the book.  And yet he slept, soundly and without worry while I carried the entire burden myself.

I always do.

***********

I woke up in a sleep deprived fog and mentally willed myself to put on a smiling face.  Carson was, of course, in his true form, mouthy and argumentative from the moment I whispered, “good morning my sunshine boy,” in his ear.

I read somewhere online about choosing a word to strive for as your goal for the year.  My word is calm.   As Carson’s protests continued, I kept repeating my mantra.  “Calm.  Calm.  Calm.  Calm.”

Humor sometimes helps to ease the mood and repair rifts that develop between Carson and I.  His humor can be as healing to me, even though it’s in no way his intent.

“My elbow hurts,” Carson whined, as he had whined about every single detail of the morning.

“Well you know what that means, don’t you?”  I inquired, as seriously as I could.  “It means that I’ll have to saw your arm off.”

Concerned, Carson protested.  “But then I won’t be able to hug you and daddy and Ella!”

I hugged him and told him that mommy was making a joke and just wanted him to laugh.

“But mommy, I can’t laugh.  I’m too tired.  And I’m thirsty.”  WHINE, WHINE, WHINE.

“What would you like to drink?  How about some beer?”  I jested, hoping he caught my joke.

“But MOM!  Only people who are OLD year-olds can drink beer!”  He giggled.  “Chocolate milk.  Please.”

Before we left for preschool drop off, I tried to get Carson to take some cough medicine.  He was not having any of it, claiming he didn’t need it.

“GOING TO BED IS ANOTHER WAY TO TREAT A COUGH!” he screamed at me as I chased him with the dose of medicine that eventually spilled all over me, Carson, and the floor.

***********

I wish I could say that the burdens and worries of the State of our Marriage and the lack of sleep and dealing with Carson’s four years of difficult behavior didn’t finally trigger my switch.

Calm?

Not this time.  I lost my cool.  I yelled, in a way that could not be described as calm or using humor to diffuse the anger.

Now I have even more to lose sleep over tonight.

“We really prefer Miss Helen’s Dance over Jamison’s Dance Academy.  Allison gets a lot more individual attention there.”  A group of my mom friends were trading tips on their kids’ activities.

Another mom added, “Well we finally got Hunter and Taylor registered for swim lessons with that private instructor you told me about,”  she pointed at the mom sitting next to me who nodded with fervent agreement.  “It was hard to work around their soccer and t-ball practices.”

I sat and listened, trying not to let the panic stricken look show on my face that I’d strategically concealed with a Stepword wife smile and glazed look.  Silently I interrogated myself.  “Why haven’t I gotten Carson and Ella involved in anything!  Have I totally crippled them as potential athletes because they are going to be way behind all of their peers in sports and dance and swimming???  How was I even supposed to know this stuff??”

My mind suddenly relived every sports related horror of my childhood.

…the time I fell in a hole on the soccer field my first day of practice when I was seven years old and the only kid who had never played before.  (I never played soccer again.)

…when I was about nine, I decided I wanted to try gymnastics and learn how to do back handsprings and was placed in a beginner’s class with preschoolers.  “MOM!  I’m with the BABIES, learning how to do somersaults!!”  (I didn’t go back, but it was the first time I was the tallest kid in class.  So there was that.)

…I was always one of the last picked for teams in kickball, softball, basketball, volleyball, and EVERY OTHER PLAYGROUND SPORT IMAGINABLE during elementary school.  (Please note I was ONE of the last, not THE last.  This is an important distinction.)

…I didn’t make cheerleading in 7th grade because I was awful.  I couldn’t do herkies or pikes or toe touches, or even remember two lines of a cheer, but whatever.

…For one season I was on my high school’s swim team, but the stress of the competition resulted in my wishing the school bus would break down on the way to the meets and/or praying for raging diarrhea so I wouldn’t have to compete.

The discussion amongst the moms continued.  “We started Chloe in soccer when she was about two and a half up at that indoor sports complex off Water Road.  It was a daddy-daughter thing and she LOVED it!”

“It’s so funny to hear you all talk about your little ones!  I remember when Chase was that young and starting to play!  It was so cute to watch all the kids chase after the balls.  Now that he’s fifteen, it’s so competitive and I have to spend nearly every waking moment on the baseball field once spring comes.”

PANIC!  My children are going to be behind and they aren’t even in elementary school!

Tate was always involved in sports, but I’m not particularly athletic.  Coordination and game rules don’t come naturally to me.  I don’t know if I would have started playing sports earlier if it would have made a difference or helped my confidence, but I do know that I don’t want my kids to be like me when it comes to sports.  Even if they aren’t the best athletes, I want them to enjoy some sort of athletic activity and I don’t want them to give up without ever giving it a chance.

My fear is that if I don’t get off my non-athletic butt and start getting them involved, they are going to be very behind their peers in sports and dance.   If most kids are starting soccer/dance/gymnastics/t-ball at two or three years old, then if I wait any longer to get them involved, they are going to be the worst players, the ones always picked almost last (or God forbid, LAST), or they are going to be the nine year olds put in the beginner groups with BABIES.

I guess now the thing I need to do is get over my phone phobia and actually call around to some places to try and register each of them for whatever it is you register kids for in the spring.

When I was growing up, I loved spending the night at my friend Diana’s house.  Not only could we stay up as late as we wanted and eat her mother’s famous mini chocolate cupcakes with pink icing, her parents didn’t care if we slept past 10 AM.  Even though I usually lay awake in my sleeping bag for hours waiting on Diana to wake up in the mornings, I just liked that I could sleep in if I was able to.

My mother (whom I love and adore…HI MOM!), would stand at the threshold of my childhood bedroom on Saturday mornings and say something like, “Do you realize it’s 9:00?  Don’t you think that maybe you should get up?”  I grew up feeling guilty about sleeping in, and the possibility of missing out on a day filled with fun (and dusting) (and vacuuming) (and cleaning bathrooms).

In college, while all my friends slept until 2, or 3, or even 7:00 in the evening, I usually woke up no later that 9:30.  Sometimes it was because I was the only one of us who actually had a job that I had to get to on time, but usually it was just because I could hear my mother’s haunting words,  “don’t you think that maybe you should get up,” over and over again in my head.

I get it.  I really don’t want to waste my life sleeping when I could be doing!  True photographers wake up before sunrise hoping to capture the perfect shot, kind people volunteer their time, involved parents arise early and plan activities to give their children memory-making, educational experiences.  These are all noble things that require one to BE AWAKE and not wasting their life snoozing in the comfort of a warm and toasty bed with 600 (+) thread-count sheets.

Can I be honest with you, though?  Just between you and I, there really is something to be said for occasionally wasting your life in the comfort of a warm and toasty bed with 600 thread-count sheets.  This became especially true once I became the mother to a very early rising son four long years ago.

As a baby, Carson usually woke for the day anytime between 5 AM and 5:03 AM.  Sleepily, I’d trudge to his room, retreat the couch with him and the Boppy where I’d sit, feed him, hold him, and watch infomercials and black and white movies for several hours.  Eventually he began sleeping really late and wouldn’t awaken until 5:40 AM.  Those extra 37 minutes of sleep were glorious, though I really looked forward to the day that we actually got to sleep in until at least 6 AM.

So for the past four years, we’ve been a family that was awake by no later that 7 AM (SCORE! At least, comparatively).  I wish I could say that I’ve spent those early mornings of these past four years getting up before sunrise and honing my photography skills or volunteering or taking my children out for nature hikes.  I haven’t, instead I’ve moaned and complained and poured bowls of Cinnamon Life cereal while watching Curious George and Sid the Science Kid.

We lead a busy life, filled with preschool and outings several days a week.  I don’t want to be lazy and sleep in everyday, but it would be nice if on Saturdays and Sundays and spring, summer, and Christmas breaks, we could JUST FREAKING SLEEP PAST 7 AM!!

On the first day of Christmas break, all my prayers (oh alright, my begging and pleading) were answered.  I looked at the clock that first morning and nearly panicked when I saw that it was 8:40.  I jumped out of bed and raced to the children’s rooms, frightened of what I would find.  There they were, eyes closed, mouths open, breathing slowly and deeply, my two sleeping children.  And did I mention it was 8:40?!

While this didn’t happen everyday, it happened enough that I started to hear the voice of my mother questioning if I knew what time it was and didn’t I think I should think about getting up.  I quickly shut her up by justifying the extra sleep as make-up time for the sleep deficit I have incurred since 2005.

Now that I’ve taught my children to appreciate the art of sleeping in, I think I can successfully say I’ve truly accomplished one of my goals as a parent.   Next up:  teaching the children to do laundry, vacuum, clean their bedrooms, and advanced calculus.  EASY!

For some reason this year, I got it in my head to bake! and craft! for the holidays.  I had visions of homemade goodies, both edible and non-edible and watching the recipients ooh and ahh at such beautiful and delectable creations.

First of all, at the beginning of the school year, I signed up to bring Jell-O Jigglers to Jesus’ birthday party, because nothing says Happy Birthday, Jesus! like a good jiggler.  Actually, I didn’t know that Jesus was really all that big of a fan of Jell-O or jigglers, but I figured that the school didn’t request wine and bread since it was for a kid’s party.

After last Valentine’s Day fiasco, I decided to wow everyone with my impressive jiggler making skills.   I used a fancy pants cookie cutter and cut the Jell-O into candy cane and angel shapes.   I was pretty sure these would be a slam dunk and would totally wow all the other parents kids.  That was until I got to school and the mom in charge of cookies had hand decorated homemade sugar cookies.  As Tate told me later, I got “preSCHOOLED.”

So anyway, after that let down I’m really feeling the need for someone to just validate me.  Yes, I’m posting pictures of my food and crafts on my blog hoping for comments that make me feel better about myself.

Half-eaten gingerbread man! CUTE! I found this idea at elsiemarley.com.

Ribbon bookmarks! Mine look like CRAP, but feel free to not agree with me. These were much harder to make than I imagined. I figured that they’d take, like, ten, maybe twenty minutes to make. Try AN HOUR.  Each.   This idea came from Blissfully Domestic.

These are supposed to be a trio of cookies, but I decided to make separate cookies. They were delicious, but next time I make them, I’m making them flatter and adding more jam. Recipe can be found at epicurious.com.

Pretzels! Made with “help” from the kids. With a glop of chocolate and sprinkles/candy cane bits on the end! Thanks Semi-Desperate Housewife for the idea. (They were supposed to last for longer than two days, but they, um, didn’t.)

Gratuitous kid shot.  At least I can make those perfectly cute and totally nom-nom-nom-able.

Phew.  Betcha thought I forgot all about posting on this lazy NaBloPoMo Sunday, huh?  No?  You didn’t even notice?  Well.

**Ella has this really red rash that started yesterday.  By last night she was practically covered with it.  I took her to a doc in the box this morning and the nurse practitioner thought that it she could be having an allergic reaction to her antibiotic that she’s been on for almost 10 days for an ear infection.  So that lazy Sunday I mentioned in the first paragraph was not, in fact, lazy.  It was filled with worry and tender kisses on itchy foreheads, calamine lotion, oatmeal baths,  and holding and rocking a sweet baby girl.  I fully embodied the spirit of Ma Ingalls.

**I came home from the doctor to my husband questioning me, which is completely different than asking me questions.  “Why didn’t they do a histamine test?”  “The doctor didn’t even know WHAT the rash was and was just giving a cop out answer that it’s a drug reaction, wasn’t she?”  “You ARE going to call the REAL doctor in the morning, AREN’T YOU?”

In case you were wondering my husband does not actually earn a paycheck as a hard-nosed detective.

**There is a direct correlation between the number of sunny days and the amount of housework that gets completed.  My house is a freaking disaster area.  Can you guess the weather?!

**I never, ever (EVER) write reviews, but an opportunity to try out a Shabby Apple Dress came my way and wouldn’t you know, I wrote a review.  You can check out my review here!

My mom and I were discussing what I feed and don’t feed my children.

“Carson and Ella both love Honey Nut Cheerios, but they wish they could eat Cinnamon Toast Crunch everyday.  They know I won’t let them, though,” I explained.

Being a doting grandmother she asked, “Why don’t you let those babies have Cinnamon Toast Crunch!?”

Of course I explained that I couldn’t possibly let them start their days with that much sugar and that I really try to make sure that they eat mostly healthy.   

“My sanity depends on not having to scrape them off the ceiling, Mom.”

“You let them have a least some of their Halloween candy, I hope!”  my mom asserted, apparently having forgotten the calamity of children high on sugar.

“Well, yeah, some of it.  I took away all the Snickers, though, and put them in the freezer.  Unfortunately Carson discovered them and couldn’t figure out how his Halloween candy ended up there,” I explained.

“So you let them have frozen Snickers?” she asked.

“Oh no, I froze them for me.   I told Carson that it was rule that Snickers had to be frozen until they’re ready to eat, but that it would be a few more weeks until they’re ready.  When the kids aren’t looking, I eat them.”

Judge away.  I lie to my children and steal their candy.  What of it?