Filtered (and filter) thoughts

Here's something I'm not going to write about: the denial-turned-melancholy in my heart when I walk along our road and see the first leafy hints of autumn, fluttering nonchalantly to the ground, spinning dizzily as they fall.

And the feeling in my stomach when my son climbs on the hulking yellow bus and rides away from me. I'm not going to write about that either, because I don't want to ponder the empty feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with an inadequate breakfast. I choose not to dwell on his fleeting childhood that I am free to witness, but never to slow or delay. The uneasy feeling that time is slipping away from me, and moments are passing more quickly than I can record them—I'm not going to write about that.

Maybe I could write about how I recently canned homemade items from garden produce. That would be a happy post, right? Well, no. Not when I remember how much work and how many tomatoes go into creating a very small assortment of canned goods. Besides, I've already written about it here and here.

Hey, I know! I'll write a letter!

Dear Makers of the Kindle E-Reader:

I am the owner of an older model Kindle Fire. I love it, except for one design flaw—when I'm sitting in reasonably bright light, reading from the Kindle, I have to place the reader in such a position that I see my own, awful, loose-skinned lower neck reflected back at me from the smooth surface of the reader. The sight of that hideous neck skin is so ugly, and so much resembles a turkey wattle, that I am sickened and thus rendered too ill to finish my Kindle activity. I'm guessing that you've already addressed this flaw in newer models of the Kindle Fire, but that doesn't help me as I am unable to part with that much cash again when I have a perfectly good Fire in my hands already. Perhaps you offer some kind of beauty filter? A scrim of sorts to fit over the Kindle surface, something that will soften or alter the appearance of my awful lower neck? I'll hope to hear back from you soon with a solution to this issue.

There, that ought to do it for today. Happy Labor Day weekend!

Sorting on a contemplative Independence Day

I'm having a moody day, if you wondered. Holidays and special days bring out the bleak, morose side of this girl. I can't reason or even pray myself out of it sometimes; this life is just heavy. I was sorting books, trying to decide which to keep and which to send away, when I happily rediscovered Anne Morrow Lindbergh's Gift from the Sea. It's a gem, and as timelessly appropriate now as it was when published in the 50s. At least it is still appropriate for me, being still in a traditional non-earning wifely role... But I suspect it'll strike a chord even in most formally employed women.

I found myself flipping through the pages, skimming earnestly in search of a passage that had resounded so strongly with me when I first read the work. I found it after intent scanning (thankfully, the book is a slim volume at best). I share it with you here because, unbelievably, I could not find it anywhere else on the Web.

Here is a strange paradox. Woman instinctively wants to give, yet resents giving herself in small pieces. Basically is this a conflict? Or is it an over-simplification of a many-stranded problem? I believe that what woman resents is not so much giving herself in pieces as giving herself purposelessly. What we fear is not so much that our energy may be leaking away through small outlets as that it may be going "down the drain." We do not see the results of our giving as concretely as man does in his work. In the job of home-keeping there is no raise from the boss, and seldom praise from others to show us we have hit the mark. Except for the child, woman's creation is so often invisible, especially today. We are working at an arrangement in form, of the myriad disparate details of housework, family routine, and social life. It is a kind of intricate game of cat's-cradle we manipulate on our fingers, with invisible threads. How can one point to this constant tangle of household chores, errands, and fragments of human relationships, as a creation? It is hard even to think of it as purposeful activity, so much of it is automatic. Woman herself begins to feel like a telephone exchange or a laundromat.

Purposeful giving is not as apt to deplete one's resources; it belongs to that natural order of giving that seems to renew itself even in the act of depletion...

And that is where I find myself today: Watching as I swirl down the drain. There I go, hurrying away in my purposeless busy-ness. No worries—it's probably just peri-menopause knocking on my door.

On a side note, I wonder how much longer Independence Day will be observed before it is found to be offensive to some small minority of interlopers here?

Spewings of a discouraged, uptight visionary

There was an old eighties song with this refrain: "What are words for when no one listens anymore?" (Remember that song, that band, the singer with her trademark breathy, squeaky style? You do? Then you, too, are old.) But the song stuck with me, and I keep singing it to myself lately. More true, it is, every day. (Now I'm being Yoda.)

When I was young, I loved words. I loved to read, to write, to journal, to gab for hours and hours on the telephone. Words were magical, a sanctuary for me, a means of achieving change and growth, of acquiring new relationships and knowledge. Back then, I put a lot of stock in words.

Years passed, and I began teaching school. I honestly became aggravated by my own voice; perhaps every teacher does at times. And then there was grad school, where words themselves started to become tiresome. Often, nothing new was being said, it was only being expressed in a different way. I wasn't quite as enamored of words; I stopped short before finishing the Master's. I just didn't want more words in my world.

I switched careers, and technical writing and editing fit better, because it encouraged a more terse, to-the-point style of writing. Fewer words seemed like a good idea; being taciturn was downright appealing to me.

Words took center stage once again when I had my baby. Watching a child learn to understand language, then try to speak for himself, is fascinating. I grew tired of the sound of my endless voice, explaining, conversing, reading aloud, but it paid off. Thankfully, my son speaks and reads well.

But now? It seems I release my words into the wind, where they soar away, unheard, resented, ignored. My words have become traps, because what I say can and will be used against me. The words I employ are almost always displeasing to others, because they involve responsibility, work, jobs, schedules and timetables, commitments no one wants to keep. I am the lone Type A, and therefore I am the regular bearer of bad news.

I was recently accused by my partner; he informed me that I love telling people what to do. Truly, I do not. I am a reluctant leader. On personality tests, I always score high in leadership yet low in soft edges and relational skills, and I know that about myself: I'm effective but often insensitive when in charge. I don't enjoy leading, just like I didn't enjoy teaching; since I know I can be a cruel leader, I am guilt-stricken the entire time I'm doing it. Am I being too black-and-white? Do those I'm leading find me callous? Will I achieve anything other than hurt feelings? Usually, I end up leading only because there is a lack of leadership and an abundance of indecision, which I can't stand. Sometimes others are willing but not able—or the others who want to lead would clearly wreak havoc for various reasons.

I tried to defend myself, to explain to the accuser that I don't enjoy telling people what to do. I don't. But someone has to do it. To make matters worse, I told him, I am skilled not only at seeing inefficiencies, but also in foreseeing danger and mishaps and the like. I imagine the near future, and all sorts of avoidable but probable events leap out with crisp clarity. I want to help people get work done faster, reach their destination sooner, avoid any silly foibles. I want to help them steer clear of painful consequences, of injuries and unfortunate occurrences. And a lot of times, I am right; the things I foresee with concern pan out just as I'd feared. I hate it. There's no joy in being right about that stuff, just as there's no joy in leading when you know you're likely leaving a wake of bitterness.

I ponder the rest of my life, and I feel laden with the burden of silence. In all human situations where I'm involved at more than a surface level, I will be required to either bite my tongue or annoy people. Always. And how can I bite my tongue every time? Work still needs to be done, projects still need to be completed, meals need making, shopping must happen, laundry and tasks and cards and gifts and homework checks and appointments... how to accomplish it all without speech? Must I be the responsible, nagging wife and mom for all my days? And there's anxiety in being that one who supposedly "loves telling people what to do": I fear for my son and husband if I die. I ask my friends, Please, check in on them. Make sure they don't become hoarders, make sure the kid still goes to school, eats something other than pizza.

Would a big chalkboard work? A daily agenda that is written and need not be spoken? Doubtful. I fear it would go unseen, as do the jobs, assignments, timely meals, household messes, grass un-mown... It would likely be one more thing to go unnoticed by them, and yet one more item on my to-do list ("#47-update daily agenda"). I am weary, so weary.

I wish I would remember that no one is listening, and that more importantly, people learn best by doing... even if that do-ing involves falling flat on one's face. I wish I could remember to pray more and talk less,. And I really wish I were a mature enough Christian to say that I find as much satisfaction in God's working things out instead of me warning, reminding, carping, and then saying, "I told you so." No one likes hearing that.

Alas, I am not that big a person—yet.

I'm a small man in some ways, Bart. A small, petty man.
-Principal Skinner from The Simpsons

I really have done more than paint...

...but all the other stuff I've been doing is ongoing and never "finished" and, hence, there is nothing to show for my labors. Thus, I show you these creations.

Birthdays, yard work, house projects, Mother's Day, etc. have all been sweeping us into a vortex of busy, and I realized yesterday, with speechless awe, that there remain only 4 weeks of school.

Good heavens! I'd better get busy! Lord knows how little I'll get done with that sweet kid at home.

Take care until next time. Carpe diem! And don't forget your jacket!

P.S. The cat painting features one of our neighbors' kitties. Isn't she regal in her repose?

Random things I am loving

We proceed with caution through the approaching move/home sale/home purchase/chaos. While this all unfolds, we are trying to remember to praise God for every blessing—and there have been many.

I am also praising some other stuff of late. Allow me to share.

Yoplait Greek Yogurt in Coconut flavor

People, if a yogurt could be custom-created for me, it would be this one. Thick, not too sour, with tiny flecks of coconut wonderfulness hiding in its creamy, protein-rich glory. Imagine Homer Simpson making his donut-induced salivation sound right now; yes, that's the sound I make when I indulge in this spectacular, palate-pleasing treat.

Birds, especially baby birds, their parents, and mockingbirds

I kept hearing an insistent chirrup in the back yard. Further investigation revealed a baby robin, tufty and under-developed in tail feathers. He hopped around, occasionally fluttering his fuzzy wings and taking short, unstable flights. His mom or dad was hovering nearby, staying a bit ahead of him, trying to encourage the little one but not making it too easy for him. Now, two days after the initial discovery, the baby has managed to avoid becoming feral cat food, and he's improved sufficiently to fly away from me when I approach. It's a good thing Todd snapped a few photos when the "kid" was still unable to flee; I couldn't get near him earlier this morning.

Mockingbirds have the most amazing vocal talents. I don't know how they manage to imitate so many different birds and their very distinct songs; I just checked on the incredibly non-factual Wikipedia; that ever-evolving virtual tome of fantasy claims that mockingbirds can make over 400 different sounds, songs, and calls. That seems like a lot... Regardless, mockingbirds are large but not scary, attractive, relatively friendly birds who sing up a storm. Like Harper Lee said, they don't do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. I hope you encounter one soon if you haven't already. Delightful.

Being an old hag of a mother

Being an older mom of a 7-year-old has its advantages. Just as being older in general frees me from excessive concern about what others might think of me, being a "mature" mom of a primary-grade son helps me to shuck off any of the silly parenting trends that sweep our confused, under-disciplined nation on a daily basis. Perhaps having a background as a teacher helps, too; nothing but experience with kids could possibly prepare you for the attitudes and trickery employed by that young population. Either way, I can see where extra years bring extra value to parenting.

Even more important, though, is the fact that my surplus birthdays give me an appreciation for the sheer miracle of life: conception, pregnancy, birth, babies, toddlers, first words and steps... if I'd been a fresh-faced, rubber-hipped child myself when I had my boy, I would have missed the wonder of the whole thing. I feel some pity for those slim, energetic moms and dads. Yes, they bounce back into shape, do without amazing amounts of sleep, and can keep up with the newly mobile; yes, they can juggle three at a time in the grocery store (with the help of fancy race-car carts). But do they really grasp just how amazing and awe-inspiring the whole thing is? Even in my late 20s, I don't think I could truly grok this fleeting, fabulous gift we call life. How could I carefully mark those special moments of my child's life if I hadn't even begun to really take note of them in my own existence yet?

I'd better wrap up. There's much to do, and only my hands to do it. What are you loving today? There are little blessings all around us when we remember to adjust our gaze.

Art, and life

I finished this painting last week, but couldn't post it because of the operating system issues we were having. (We're still having them, but since they have not yet directly affected my husband's life, they are not yet being addressed. Sigh.) (Yes, I realize I should probably try to address them myself. I wish I had more than a misguided clue.)

So. I love female cardinals, and this little gal was so alert. She looked sort of like a gossip, not necessarily a mean-spirited type, but the bird who simply loves to share news of the neighborhood. Our pal Tom takes the best photos; this image was inspired from one of his beautiful works. It's for sale in the Etsy shop.

In unrelated news, my little guy is getting big. Filling out, solid limbs, visible muscle definition in legs now... It's freaking me out. As most parents do in times such as these, I suppose, I am recalling with fondness and nostalgia (and teary eyes) memories from his very early childhood.

One thing that we talk about frequently is the boy's discovery that most people have more than one eye. We were teaching him body parts, pointing to nose, mouth, ears, and eyes. We'd point to the feature, say the name, do it again, ask him to repeat us--you know the drill. At one point, after we'd done this several times in as many days, my sweet child was showing his new awareness to his father. "Daddee, eye." He pointed to his dad's eyeball, bringing the stubby finger close but not poking him (sometimes that happened). Then all of a sudden, the kid looked in amazement at my husband's entire face, and apparently it was the first holistic study he'd done. He said, with awe and amazement, "Daddee, two eyes!"

We still laugh about it to this day.

My gifts thus far...

Christmas is fast approaching, isn't it? Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Wow. Thankfully, I had already finished most of the big tasks by Wednesday, because late Wednesday night (early Thursday morning, actually) I was awakened by a distress cry from my son. The words you don't want to hear at 2:37am: "Mom, I feel like I'm going to be sick!"

"Go into the bathroom! Hurry!" See what a fabulous mother I am? No sympathy, no concern for him... just a frantic plea that he exit all upholstered and carpeted areas before the coming upheaval. (Can you tell I've had to change smelly sheets in the middle of the night on multiple occasions? You see, there are definitely benefits to your child's increasing age; now he knows what he feels like right before he hurls. Yep, that's a benefit.)

All of this was performed in a hushed panic, of course, to try to allow at least one of us (my husband, who had to rise early and work the next day) to eke out some sleep. I met my poor boy in the bathroom, right before his theory was proven true. He was, indeed, going to be sick. And that pretty much foretold the next 30 hours, give or take a few hours. Yikes. We were up for hours in the basement rec room, sitting in the dark and first watching PBS's Lidia Celebrates America (until I realized the food shots were making the boy more ill) and then some sort of home improvement program. And he was still emptying his stomach throughout. Did I mention that?

Today, I am happy to report some improvement. He's not completely cured, but he's eating now and the food is staying put and appears to be on its way to a perfectly normal exit from the appropriate end. 'Nuf said.

However, the gifting wasn't over. I never mentioned here that last week, because I was hoping the situation would blow over without tragedy...but our new cat feasted on some lovely curling ribbon from a Christmas package. Yum, yum. I found bits of it in her regurgitated meal (perhaps that was foreshadowing of my kiddo's illness) and we watched the kitty through the next day and night, making certain she could still eat, drink, pee, do the other... and she did. I read various cat forums online which led me to believe that, since she could perform these duties without trouble or pain, she had gotten the ribbon out of her system and was going to be fine. And she is fine.

However. In the litter box a little while ago, can you guess what I discovered? Maybe you've guessed correctly—a lovely, undigested 4-inch strip of blue ribbon. Surrounded by, caked with, and mostly obscured by feces. That's right, a blue ribbon poo.

So, if this is the pattern of all the good things I'll receive this year? Wow, I can hardly wait to open some wrapped packages! What wonders might I find within? Aren't you jealous!?

Seriously, I hope your Christmas is a good one. I hope you receive the true gifts of joy and peace in our savior, and the fact that he was, indeed, one of us: Emmanual. God with us.

Merry Christmas! And for heaven's sake, throw away the ribbon and wash your hands with soap and hot water.

The perils of childhood summers

We signed up for beginner sessions at the pool a few weeks ago, and then the lessons began this past Monday. There we all stood, a bevy of parents, grandparents, and swimsuit-clad kids of all ages. The perky, tanned lifeguards called out names and got everyone into the proper groupings, and the guardians and younger siblings made their way to spots in the grass or shade, where we plunked down to observe the swimmers-in-training.

It's funny how you can bury a memory, and then years later it all comes back with unsettling clarity. It's the swimming lessons' fault. My kid hates them. He needs them, I know. It is essential that he learn to swim. Crucial. Absolutely a must. But it's not fun. Not yet, anyway.

I didn't fully recollect how much I, too, used to hate swimming lessons until the second day of this week, when my sweet son pleaded silently with me from the pool, his face distorted by the telltale pre-cry grimace. I spoke to him over the fence, as close as I was permitted to get. He had to be tough, I said; he just needed to do his best. It was okay if it wasn't perfect. It would get easier. Etc. Etc. In vain. He heard not a word through his misery. I gave up after a minute and returned, guilt-stricken, to my safe spot in the shade.

The next day, I stayed farther away. When he looked my way repeatedly, I looked down at the notebook in my hands, adding imaginary items to my grocery list so he knew without a doubt that I wouldn't save him and let him out of the lesson commitment. This morning, after he'd played the tears card in the car before the lesson began, I went farther; I sat behind a huge mountain of a man after my son entered the pool, thus totally obliterating the kid's view of me. He seemed to give up after a bit, according to a classmate's grandpa who was keeping watch as he sat next to me, and by the end of class my boy was actually trying to retrieve a ring from under water. This is big for us, believe me. Ring retrieval is an enormous step.

Now, we have a few days off from lessons, and I pray that his ring-seeking moment of bravery will not be forgotten over the long weekend. The point of this post, though, is not how my boy hates swimming; it's the fact that my vicarious suffering has brought back to me memories of my own early days at the "big pool." The sad truth is that I recognized that dripping, grimacing face of his, and it was my face. From many years back.

My teacher was not a cute, brown-skinned teenager. My teacher was Miss Betty. She was ancient to us kids, but old even by the standards of most adults. Her hair was frizzy and white, and when she instructed the older kids and was submerged, I'm pretty certain she wore an old rubbery swim-cap. Her requisite blue suit was stretched over her doughy flesh, and I don't recall that she was actually tanned even though she had reportedly life-guarded since birth; she must have been an advocate of sunscreen even back in the day. Or, her weary pigment had just given up.

Miss Betty had about as many soft, fuzzy edges as a box. Her voice was not an encouraging coo—it was more of a bark. She had no tolerance for fear, and she accepted no excuses. When she said blow bubbles, by God you blew bubbles. Even if you filled the pool with snot as you wept openly. There we stood, a row of horrified 6-year-olds, our blue lips quivering (the lessons always happened in the morning, early in the summer when the water was still barely 75 degrees), and Betty made us blow, and float, and kick until we could barely move our frozen limbs.

For many of us not raised near a ready supply of deep water, the idea of putting your face under water it not appealing. The very sensation of water rushing around one's head, up one's nose, into one's ears is pretty frightening. Doing this under duress while a crabby old lady hollers at your from above the water's surface or, worse yet, "helps" you to do these things, is pretty traumatizing. At several points my terrified, oxygen-deprived young brain was convinced that Betty would let me drown. She never did.

In fact, not only did she manage to pass me on to the next level, turtle-floating and bubble-blowing in adequate fashion, but she also delivered artificial respiration successfully to an infant a few years later, thus saving a baby from drowning. She may not have been heavy on charm, but she knew her stuff, that Betty.

So, I know there is hope for my boy. I can still side-stroke myself to safety these days thanks to her Betty's stubborn efforts, and I do go under the surface willingly, not just when forced to do so. But my heart breaks a little when I imagine the thoughts that must be going through my little guy's head. I keep reassuring him that the guards know what they're doing, that they all started out the same way that he is starting, the same way that I started. It does get easier. I can't assure him that it will ever be easy—that might be a lie. But easier? Yes.

Happily, I can still say with certainty that Dory was right: "Just keep swimming." I just wish we could skip this part of the learning experience.

Winding down and shifting gears

We're in the last week of school here; some districts have already finished for the year. It's exciting and also hard to believe. My little guy will be a first grader—egads!—and we'll be spending lots more time playing and less time hurrying to get somewhere on time. At least that's the plan. I am eager to spend more time with my sweet little boy.

It's hard to find balance, though. I'll go from having too much time alone to being deprived of it altogether. I don't know how often I'll be blogging, let alone painting. Unless I can turn the kid on to painting, too—I do have multiple easels, and he's loaded with tempera thanks to a generous Christmas gift from pals. A family plein air session, anyone? Todd did go to Art Institute... but seems less inclined to do old-fashioned paper-and-canvas art unless it's sketching. He's just too good at that Adobe Creative Suite.

So, I won't bid you adieu, but I will say that my posts for the new couple of months are likely to be hit or miss. This is the last painting* I will finish while the kiddo is institutionalized. It's the entryway for a building on my church's campus. For me, this door signifies my stepping into the world of choir rehearsal. I pull that handle, mount the steps inside, and join a throng of voices raised in worship. We'll have the summer off, so perhaps I can see this doorway hanging in my home, and be reminded to revisit my arpeggios occasionally. (Not that we sing those at rehearsal. There's no time! We get right down to business, man! God's praises won't wait for warm-ups!)

Have a great kick-off to the summer season. Remember, the whole point is to do less. It's perfectly okay to achieve mind-liberating, creativity-feeding boredom.

* Thanks to Rick C. for the great photo source!

The real me

Yesterday, I found myself near a department store. So, I decided to head in and abuse myself until I felt really depressed.

Well, that wasn't how it started out—but that's pretty much how it ended.

I made the mistake of doing a little spontaneous swimsuit shopping. Foolish, I know. That sort of adventure requires preparation, the pumping up of one's ego, a salad for breakfast to alleviate guilt, etc. But I broke all the rules because, by golly, the suits were all 50% off. Unfortunately, that was 50% off of the price, not the size of my thighs.

(If you're one of the two guys who actually read this, I apologize. I think a guy can relate if he thinks of areas of his body that haven't held up too well over the years, or of tasks that used to be easy that now require real effort. I'll try not to be too graphic or girly. I'm not a terribly girly girl, anyway, so I think you'll be safe.)

It began innocently enough, with simple purchase pursuits like toilet paper and sunscreen. And then. There they were, in all their stretchy, bright-colored glory. Animal prints, pink hyacinths, little skirty bottoms that one might believe could hide flaws. They hung enticingly, just the styles I'd been admiring in a magazine recently, with adjustable straps and reinforced tummies and all those wonderful extras that would turn me into a model. I couldn't help myself; I slipped into the happy world of what I look like in my mind. I grabbed an assortment of tops and bottoms and carried them with misguided hope to the dressing room.

Oh. My. Goodness. The first top was too small, which squeezed certain areas painfully until I feared I'd be unable to remove the article. I tried the other, and it was too large and turned the same aforementioned areas into ridiculously unflattering, saggy triangles. All through this painful process, I couldn't help noticing that my arms are really quite dimply and white. And round. And that there are parts of the lower arm that appear to be nearly detached because of the way they function independently from the rest of my upper torso.

But oh, that's just above the waist. Below was even worse. More fishy whiteness, more dimpling and orange peels where there should be none, more bulgy parts that refused to stay hidden smoothly under spandex. Why are all the modern, fashionable waistbands right at the plumpest part of my waist? In my mind, I'm still a slender, wasp-waisted gal... Where is that girl now? Oh, that's right. Over 40, had a baby, can't stop eating mac and cheese, etc.

The rear view was too upsetting to discuss. I realize I could amend some of this with harder exercise and more eating discipline, but honestly, it would require a lifestyle choice and self-centered approach that I just can't imagine happening right now. I have a 6-year-old, I can't justify the cost of joining a gym or hiring a trainer, and I already feel as if I've given up so much with the whole prediabetes issue that I'm just not willing to give any more.

The solution? I'll wear my old suit, which sports an old-lady skirt, and I'll wear my cute little cover-up I bought on super-clearance last fall, and I'll stop looking in 3-way mirrors under fluorescent lighting. Even if I get thinner and more fit, I can't ever match the image of me that I carry in my own mind. The idealistic vision that can't be found anymore. The imaginary Mel. I don't believe it's possible to regain that fresh face, the wide-open eyes, the tight neck skin, the hairless chin.

I'll do what I can. I don't look that bad, truly; I won't sit around beating myself up. Even as I left the dressing room, I saw far chubbier women shopping nearby and they weren't one bit worried about their thighs. I know I'm thinner than I was before my son was born, and I know I'm healthier than I used to be, too. And thank goodness I don't live at a beach where people hang out in swimsuits all the time. That's unsanitary, anyway. Right?

Still, it's a sobering moment, when you face the real you in a harsh reflection, and that real you confronts the happy younger you that lives cluelessly in your mind. Hey, little girl, says nowadays me. Hey, step aside or I'll sit on you. This is my house now. Move it, you bag o' bones.

Damn, I miss that bony kid. Or at least I miss her outward appearance. Now, pass me that big bathing dress and a bag of chips, okay?

It lived up to its name

I've written about the Pittsburgh Zoo and PPG Aquarium before on this blog. And I've been there many times since my son was born. We even sprang for a membership last year, which we thoroughly enjoyed. However, I've been somewhat spoiled in my zoo visitations, because I've always been able to take advantage of weekday mornings and off-season lulls. Our family's zoo escapades were made with crowd avoidance in mind, with daytime temperatures in mind, and we've always steered clear of May visits, period. Why? Field trips, that's why.

Except yesterday, I was the field trip. I went to the zoo with my son's kindergarten class. Some other insane mothers also chaperoned (one of them coming straight from a night shift—no sleep!!!) and we met the buses in the parking lot. We'd already received a list of the kids for whom we'd be responsible, and we checked names, counted heads, double-checked lunches, and set off through the zoo. We had to meet back at the entrance in under four hours, and there was much to see.

A couple of my little cuties immediately decided they wanted to stop at one of several shops; they seemed to be convinced that I'd be ponying up for everyone to purchase an overpriced item from China. Sorry, kids, not happening. I steered them clear of the first store and we made our way toward the leopard and tigers. It began to dawn on me, then, just how many people were visiting the zoo that day. Hordes of kids and a handful of adults, most in a series of matching t-shirts, were crushed up against all the fences surrounding the tiger area. People were standing several folks deep in places. It was a bit unnerving.

I tried to keep an eye on my five children, one of whom was my own; this was not an easy task in such a slew of small bodies. I'd have them in sight, and then one would be gone, then two... Sigh. When I finally was able to extricate all five of them from the mass, I called an emergency meeting. We needed a team name, I said. And some rules.

One child wanted to be the Cats, another wanted to be Orange Cubs, so we combined and became the Orange Cats* for the day. Also, I explained, there are tons of people here and I need to be able to easily see you all, at all times. That meant, I stressed, no one more than 10 feet away at a time. Perhaps I should have forced hand-holding, but honestly, it was hard to do—the day was heating up, people were sweaty, slippery little hands kept sliding away anyway, boys outnumbered girls... and I was not their teacher. They just weren't as willing to do that for me. I guess I can't blame them.

So, the Orange Cats set out once again, up the hill toward the savannas of Africa. It seemed that every display caused a slight uproar of sorts: the elephant house was too smelly, the fish in the pond were yucky, the orangutan was vigorously scratching an inappropriate area, the gorilla had some sort of visible residue on his posterior... Through it all, I kept losing my kids in the crowds, then finding them again. I can tell you in precise detail what each one of them had one because I got so good at locating the clothing. Happily, calling to the Orange Cats yielded better results than yelling out their names.

At some point, after much repetition of the phrase, "I'm hungry, I want lunch," I noticed that indeed, our bag lunches were looking worse for travel. I gave in at 11:30, and we found a large shady rock outside the aquarium and ate our sandwiches. Several people needed help opening packages, but at last we were all munching and for a moment, life was calm. We hit the head, and got drinks of water.

Refueled, we plunged into the aquarium (the building that houses the tanks, not the tank itself) and the madness resumed. Bigger crowds than ever shuffled through the dark halls, and the noise was deafening. Even if you could see your charge a few feet away, they likely couldn't hear you calling because of the throng of voices all around. We finally got out of there, passing through one of the cute zoo shops so the kids could see I was, in fact, not springing for toys for all. Once they comprehended this sad truth, they made their way outside again and we headed downhill to the polar bear exhibit. Outside the big bears' window, one of my kids announced that he was bleeding. Indeed, he was: lovely red droplets stood out on his shin. Did I have a tissue? Neosporin? Of course not. I'm the rebel mother who won't even join PTO, remember? Naturally I did not have the "good mom" tools of the trade. We found another restroom, I appointed the biggest kid as stand-in leader, and I rushed into the ladies' room to get a paper towel and soap. No towels! We're green!!! Blow your hands dry! So I had to stem the flow with toilet paper.

The boy survived and we went on. Little did I know that the worst was yet to come.

Kids Kingdom is a part of the zoo specifically designed for kids. It has play areas, animals you can pet, crazy rope bridges and climbing apparatuses. The Kingdom also has several enclosed slides at its entrance. I hate enclosed areas and have never attempted to partake in these slides, but I know that even on less crowded days, the slides are popular. On this day, they were absolutely mobbed. The children in my little group had been talking about them and couldn't wait to get there; also, I'd happily noticed that my gang was getting a bit more tired and slowing down. I made them all promise to come right back to me and not leave the slide area. (Stupid, I know—I should have handcuffed them all to me and run in the other direction.) Anyway, the Orange Cats had been listening pretty well and staying together. I found an obvious place to stand and waited for them to return to me.

Minutes passed. The two little girls showed up at the bottom of one slide, and I quickly corralled them. One time down was enough. My son showed up. And the other two remained missing.

More minutes passed. It felt like at least ten. Maybe 7 or 8 minutes? I kept checking my watch. They were gone. I had the other three sit in front of me and we all scanned the crowd. I was praying they'd show up. Where were they? What could have happened? Would they have gone on to the next area without me? After we'd all agreed to stay here until we were together again? I scrunched around in my purse, found my wallet, pulled out the number of the teacher... I had to talk to her and find out the procedure for lost kids... There was another little lost kid just behind us, talking to a zoo worker and another adult, and the stricken look on the boy's face made me want to cry. Oh, why did this happen?! I trusted them to come back to me!

My mind raced ahead, to the moment of confrontation with the parents of the boys; would they shout at me? Call me irresponsible? What if someone kidnapped the kids? What if they were found by another teacher or parent, thus informing the world how ineffectual a chaperone I truly was? Would I be ostrasized from future trips? I was just dialing the teacher's cell phone when one of my waiting three hollered out to the missing boys. There they both were, coming away from the end of the biggest, tallest tube slide.

Oh, my Lord, I was so relieved. The two latecomers explained that the line for the big slide had been incredibly long. We hadn't been able to see that, because the whole Kingdom is cleverly designed in a stand of tall trees, most of which had foliage now. It's a great set-up for shade, a beautiful view when you're strolling along the elevated walkways above the whole place... but when you're missing two children? It is decidedly not pretty.

Well, we held hands for awhile after that. Then, after I'd finished having a heart attack, we made our way toward the final building, first stopping at another playground with—yep, you guessed it—more of the awful, horrible, infuriating tubes where kids can climb and hide. And one of my disappearing boys did his best trick again, while my other four students and I looked in vain at every tube opening. When he did finally emerge at the top of yet another slide, I waited at the bottom to nab him. Guess what? The little twit saw me and turned around to exit another way. Suffice it to say that he got to me my favorite little buddy and hand-holder for the remainder of the day, which was thankfully wrapping up. I might have sprained a couple of his fingers when he tried to re-enter tubeland, but at that point I figured it was worth the risk; missing the bus back to school wasn't much better than losing a kid or two.

We made it back in time, and found the sidewalk littered with weary 6-year-olds. The buses came, the kids climbed on, and I left with sore feet, salty brow, and a firm decision that I would not willingly participate in this particular event again. And then I thought, What if I don't go and there aren't enough adults? What if everyone has to keep an eye on 8 or 10 kids instead of 5, all because of me?

Well, I won't think about that now. I'll just keep researching hair colors, so as to best hide the additional grey hairs that I am certain to find after yesterday's adventure. I came away not just with more greys, but also with even more respect for people who can work with large groups of small kids. God bless 'em. Every one.

And for the love of pete, don't go to the zoo in May. Or early June. Or on holidays. Unless what I've just described sounds like a grand time to you, that is.

*I've changed our team name for privacy reasons. Because I'm anal like that.

Deep thoughts in the middle of the night

My son knows I am a light sleeper. And he knows, too, that I'm a sucker. Every now and again, he summons me to his room at 3 or 4am to help him find his missing teddy or other stuffed creature. The infrequent bad dream is also a reason for him to call me; the soft but definitive "Mom!" always brings me right out of a sound sleep.

The other night, though, we had a completely new conundrum.

The telltale "Mom!" came to me, quiet but insistent, at around 3:15am, and I hurriedly threw back covers and stumbled around the circumference of the bed and through the short hallway to my boy's room. I had to flip on the bathroom light (which is in the next room) so I could see what I was doing without blinding both of us with unwanted brightness.

There sat my son, upright at the head of his twin bed, in camouflage PJs, rubbing his semi-awake eyes and looking both weary and suspicious at the same time.

"What is it, Honey?" I asked.

"Mom, who took my sheets?" he countered in an accusatory tone.

What an odd thought. Why would he conclude that someone else had taken them? We were the only two in the room, yet this was his first assumption.

I was also half-awake, you recall, and my sensitivity was not at an all-time high as I gazed at him through squinty eyes and replied, "No one." I pointed at the foot of his bed, and there were the offending sheets and blankets, scrunched up into an unrecognizable mass... where he'd pushed them with his own restless feet and legs.

"You kicked them down to the bottom, Babe," I explained sleepily, and I helped him pull the bedclothes back up and rearrange them correctly over his soon-to-be-prostrate form. He snuggled down and was already halfway there, and I tucked him in and exited quickly before our interlude could become a full-fledged conversation, which I was mostly definitely not interested in pursuing.

But I thought about it a lot as I tried to get back to sleep, and on into the next day. How strange, that my little boy's limited exposure to the world, or me, or human nature, caused him to look for the guilty party who'd taken his covers, instead of grasping that he'd pushed them away from himself. How often have I done the same thing? Not just while sleeping, but also while fully awake? How often in my life have I sought the covers thief, instead of accepting responsibility and seeking to make it right so that I am "covered" from here on in?

See, I warned you these were deep thoughts...

Tough decisions

I'll bet you think I'm talking about something really important when I say tough decisions: where to live, what to do with my life, which job to pursue, whether or not to adopt a child, etc.

Well, I'm not talking about anything that serious. I spent some time this morning going through my closet. I was trying to determine what still fits, which garments can live happily and well beyond their decade of origin, etc. But what I was really trying to see is what still feels right on a 41-year-old's body.

I got rid of some items. I ended up devising a short list of checkpoints to help me decide which pieces just don't work anymore. Is it more than an inch or two above the knee? Ditch it. I have short legs; I don't need to be fretting about whether or not my chubby thighs are hanging out. Is it an unflattering color that I could get away with ten or twenty years ago, but now looks desperately youth-driven? Toss it. Is it apt to move around too much, thus requiring constant adjustment (pull-downs, straightening, pinning of straps to bra straps, etc.)? If so, lose it. Life is too short to spend it re-adjusting and tugging. There was a time when I was willing. Now? Not.

Then we get into the simple, common-sense checkpoints. Is it comfortable? Do those cute jeans dig into my belly and leave strange hieroglyphs on my skin? It's time for them to go. Does any part of my lower undergarments show? It should not. (Undies shouldn't show on anyone, really; I've never bought into the mentality that finds a glimpse of skivvies charming in any way. But on an over-40 person? Most definitely unforgivable.) Do the shoes or boots cause immediate foot cramps? Then they must walk away.

I don't have to spend much time pondering any sort of gauzy material. Must I wear a camisole or some similar item in order to get away with the rest of the outfit? Sorry, those days are over. I don't want to bother. Into the "out" pile it goes. Any top with a band around the bottom? Gone-zo. I don't even think I had any of those to begin with, thank goodness.

I guess what I'm trying to avoid is making a mockery of my younger self. I want to steer wide and clear of becoming one of those women at whom I used to snicker. You know the ones; I won't even bother to give specific examples because I don't want anyone I know wondering whether I mean them. Just imagine a middle-aged woman who is trying in some (or several) aspects to look younger than she is. It matters not the means she uses; it's just not wise. We can tell she's not 25 anymore. The plan is not working.

I will cling to the classics, the styles that stubbornly refuse to identify themselves as "stylish." The way I look at it, I'd much rather try to have style than simply be in style. Fashion comes and goes; style remains.

Maybe it's motherhood that's caused me to confront my true age. I long ago stopped worrying about whether I embarrass Todd (tee hee), but I really don't want to make my son feel awkward. I have to shake my head at the moms who show up for classroom parties with cleavage bared; what are they thinking? And when the kids are teens? You don't want to try to compete with your daughter or her friends, and you certainly don't want to try to attract your son's pals. That's just wrong.

Anyway. Motherhood. Below is my latest creation. If you need a Mother's Day gift, check it out here! And if the mother in question cooks or bakes, you can even get the same design on an apron. How's that for original? Okay, now I'm finished hawking my wares.

The great thing is that if you're reading this and thinking I'm a fuddy-duddy, it's a free country and you are entitled to think whatever you want. You can even go put on a completely inappropriate outfit and parade around the street in it. Isn't America awesome?

My love/hate relationship...with Legos

Here are some facts which you may already know about me, and which will help you to better understand the rest of this post:

1. I am a slightly obsessive neatnik.

2. I love order, despise chaos, and fight clutter everywhere I go.

3. I might be slightly weird.

3. I have a young son.

4. The young son has amassed an impressive collection of Legos.


Legos are awesome. I had them when I was a kid. They inspire creativity and flexibility in thought. They teach design and also give ample opportunities for re-design; they encourage children to explore their engineering tendencies, and they nurture the need to build stuff. They might even help kids develop a better understanding of spatial relationships.

Let's not forget, too, that Legos make a splendid gift for a little boy. They're the fail-safe idea, the sure-to-go-over-well item. Even duplicate sets don't really pose any problems, because everyone knows that after the initial construction of the prescribed toy, all those carefully assembled blocks will be torn apart and re-used over and over again, never in the same way twice.

But it's the dead of winter, the temperatures have been downright bitter, and we've spent way more time indoors than I would like. Which means that the Legos have barely had time to rest in their big plastic bin before some hand has been riffling through them roughly, searching for just the right piece.

Maybe I have Seasonal Affective Disorder, and maybe I've been experiencing some PMS moments worsened by little daylight and even less fresh air. Maybe. All I know is that lately, the sound of Legos, and the sight of them filling the living room floor, is enough to make me want to run away and hide somewhere. Honestly, it's mostly the noise they make. When the Legos are still, they're silent—but they're rarely still. They're usually being moved quickly and often, which means they're exceptionally loud and unsettling to a freaky person such as me. I can handle the mess, because we pick up the worst of it and store it at night, but that rattling sound of brittle plastic being raked repeatedly against more brittle plastic... sometimes, I can barely endure it.

Please don't think I am too strange. Some days, I am the one responsible for that very sound as I'm poring through the piles of blocks, searching for tiny tools or miniature propellers or such. Then, I hardly notice the noise because I am so involved in the search. Other days, I'm completely immersed in some other activity and immune to that annoying racket.

And then, there are the times of which I am speaking right now.

Can I get an Amen, Sister?

Extremes

The Bad

I need to get some things off my chest:

Why doesn't the snow melt?

I am so sick of being cold all the time.

My skin is flaking like a snake's because of the heat overload.

I need about ten of those lamps that imitate sunlight, and then I need to strap them to myself and chant a sunny mantra.

I can't handle winter clothes anymore. They itch. They constrict. The only good thing about them is the fact that they hide my pasty, plump flesh. And that isn't good, either, because then I stuff my face and get more plump, all of which will be revealed on the first warm day.

Everything takes so stinkin' long in winter: getting dressed, finding and donning proper footgear, getting the car prepped, driving somewhere in slush/snow/ice, walking from the car to the destination without slipping and becoming a winter-broken-bone statistic.

I hate socks. Detest them. Yet need them.

I feel like a caged animal in this house. And even when I'm out? I'm running to another cage, from my temporary cage (car).

Can't. Take. Much. More.


The Good

The sun is shining, and has been shining for several hours. And the bathroom is finally clean.


The Beautiful

My little boy will be home from kindergarten soon.

If you had told me 15 or 20 years ago that I'd be a mom, I would have laughed in your face. I spent the first half of my life or more telling everyone I'd never had kids. I meant it. I had no interest, no burning yearning to be a mom, no thoughts of holding a small bundle of my own.

If you'd told me that at this point, I'd consider motherhood* to be the best experience I've had yet, I would have snickered and pressed my lips together in utter doubt. How ridiculous.

But it's true. I am delighted by my son. He is such a neat little person. I still can't believe what a gift he is. He's witty, and silly, and loves to play. He likes to learn new things, too, and we can sit and talk about things now and he gets it. It's awesome. But best of all? So far, he's turning out to be a kind, thoughtful kid.

I know it might not always look like this. I know people whose kids turned into strangers in teen years, or who suddenly grew up into completely miserable human beings. There's the occasional sad story of good kids turned bad who end up in jail, or worse.

But I have today. I have this moment. I have this child whom I adore, who enriches me daily, who has shown me how vulnerable I really am and how it's possible to love someone so much it pains you.


* Motherhood only—not pregnancy (stunk), not labor (stunk more). Just motherhood.

One man's nightmare is another man's reality

I've been having more bad dreams recently. It happens mostly when I'm awakened an hour or so before my usual rising time, during the fitful sleep that comes after premature wake-up/before real wake-up. That half-awake state must breed strange, troubled thoughts. And why do I keep waking up prior to the genuine wake-up? Well, I might have touched on one canine reason here. It also does not help that stupid, rule-breaking *@!?*&# Verizon borders our backyard and sometimes decides to off-load trucks around 5am. Plus there's our neighbor down the street who owns a car repair shop and has a nasty habit of "un-muffling" antique trucks and then switching around the business's classic-car license plates so he can take turns driving all of said trucks to and from the repair shop and home again. (He gets up at the crack of dawn—did I mention that?!)

Oh my, I'd better change the subject or you might think that all these factors cause me stress. How silly! Of course I love all my neighbors. Just like you do. Right?

Anyway. Bad dreams. The one that's sticking in my head most was from several nights ago. In that fitful, almost daylight hour of trying to fall back to sleep, my semi-conscious mind took me to work in a high-rise building downtown. There had been terror threats recently, and we were all gathered in a large room for a meeting, and the woman in charge was explaining there was nothing to worry about. And then, in my dream, the building lurched and the woman nearly lost her balance. We all did. It was a big lurch, as if something had exploded below us.

At that point the dream became rather unrealistic—because amidst the screams and shouts, the whole room tilted, as if the building had been struck with such force that the top of it had been knocked off. I could feel the entire room falling sideways; it was like we were in the top of one of my son's Lego structures that had been hit from the side until the upper portion flew off and landed on the ground. Except in my dream, we were falling in what felt like slow motion; we all had far too much time to process what was happening. Also, strangely (because it was a dream), no one had been knocked of his feet even though the entire room was tilted on its side and we were hurtling toward the ground below. That was handy, because since we were falling in slow-mo, and since miraculously none of us had fallen down, I had sufficient time to remember that I should make arrangements for someone else to meet my son's bus. I was preparing to dial my cell phone in the dream when I woke up.

I was very relieved to wake up. Albeit completely unrepresentative of the conscious laws of physics, the dream was disturbing. Mostly, it disturbed me because in my dream, I had not known whom to call. Now, in reality, I do know whom to call. We have a couple of options, neighbors and various relatives. Still, the whole thing got me thinking: What if I have a heart attack during the day? What if I'm involved in a bad car accident while my son's in school? What if I'm at a temp job downtown and a crazy person does a terrible thing to a building there? My building?

I know we don't like to think about this stuff. But it happens. A lady at my church lost her husband, younger than I am, because he suffered a brain aneurysm at home while caring for their children. The little kids sat next to his unconscious body for over an hour before anyone checked on them...and even then, people only checked because the wife had a weird feeling while at work. One of my son's schoolmates became father-less last year because the fellow fell from a building he was working on. Horrible as it is to consider, I am certain that there were at least a few kids waiting for a parent after the 9/11 tragedy. There had to be at least a handful of situations where the child was left without a back-up plan for a couple of hours or so. Don't you think? When that many people vanish in our busy and over-committed world, the ripples go out a long ways and affect many people.

It's scary. It gives me nightmares (literally). I can tell my child whom to find in an emergency, how to call 911—I can write down crucial information and stow it in back-packs, in wallets. But if he leaves the pack at school? No help. If I'm in a fiery crash and my purse and phone burn up? My careful preparations are ashes.

The whole thing gives me the heebie-jeebies and makes me short of breath. I guess I'll just have to make whatever plans I can, and pray that God protects my loved ones. (Would it be wrong to pray that the stupid pre-dawn disruptions cease, so I don't wake up, then try to sleep once more and have nightmares instead?)

Hollow mom

I run errands by myself these days. Each morning, I take a too-small child to a bus stop, where he climbs on a big, yellow transporter with a bunch of mostly older kids, and we wave and blow kisses at each other until he's out of sight... Then I make my lone way back home, or to the store, or to the bank, or wherever the day demands I go.

It's not the same. I feel adrift, un-ruddered, nostalgic for days past. I'm wondering what he's doing while I shop, thinking of what he'd say if he were with me, envisioning how I'd turn a sign into a teachable moment. I'm talking to the radio, to myself, casting sad and envious glances at other moms or dads with their little one still in tow.

I know it's not bad for him to be away from me now, and that he needs to be around other kids his age; I am certain that he'll benefit from professionals who are trained to work with small children and who are far more patient than I. But must he be away for so many hours every day? He's still so small; he still needs his mommy.

I'm at a bit of a loss, even two months into this separation. Staying busy, working, will not fill the void left by his advancing years. When he climbed onto that bus, he took some of my purpose with him.

While he was an infant, a toddler, I longed for time by myself. Now, I have it and more—yet I find I am not nearly as interesting as I once was.

The dreaded nursery

I’ll never forget the first time I left my sweet boy in the church nursery.

Our church is large. The nursery is often full of infants—and almost never do the nursery volunteers outnumber the babies.

That was the case the first time I had to leave Marcus there. He was nestled in his car seat, just 4 months old or so, starting to notice things but pretty much immobile. I gave the front desk his name, our names, filled out the necessary short form, and left my darling child in someone else’s care—a complete stranger’s care. I handed over the carseat, feeling ill, watching his confusion as I retreated without him. I practically had to run toward the choir room.

That wasn’t the worst part, though. The worst part was that I realized my water bottle—the bottle I always have with me when I sing—was still in the diaper bag that I’d left with the nursery. I hurried back in the same direction, and as I got to the room, I was already scanning every adult to see who held him. He was nowhere to be seen. Oh my God! My child’s been kidnapped! What will I do? What kind of sick person would take my baby? How could the church be so irresponsible?! I stood outside the door, searching the room for him, trying to remain calm before I entered the nursery screaming frantically…

And then I saw him. Sitting quietly, still in his car seat, the seat on the floor in a dim corner of the room. He was looking all around, his small serious face perplexed and a tad frightened. Well, of course they’d set him down, he’s not crying, other babies are—why ruin a good thing by hauling him out of that chair if he’s happy there? So he sat, observing, quiet and unnoticed while other infants shrieked and flailed.

I wanted to weep, seeing him there, so defenseless and self-consciously unobtrusive. I didn’t go in for my water bottle; I was afraid the dam would break behind my eyes and I would grab him and run to the car to take him back home where he’s safe, where he’s the only baby, MY baby, the center of my universe. He shouldn’t sit alone in the dark, not understanding why I’ve left him. I’m terrible. Those workers are terrible. The whole world is terrible and I must protect him from it all, including the bratty children who will holler and yell and take all the attention away from the taciturn, obedient babes.

But I didn’t do anything, just turned and went back toward the choir room, empty-handed and waterless (except for my watery eyes.)

Now I know why my sister cried when she put her daughter on the bus the first time.

Why are my eyes stinging?

Surely you must know that this breaks my heart.

Into sharp fragments.

That keep poking me on the inside of my chest.



Let us speak of it no more.

The fickle love of children—and disappointment of adults

My heart got broken earlier this evening.

For months now, I've tried to make the best of a situation gone ugly. My being away from home a lot of the time, during crucial family hours, has taken a toll—mostly on me. I've tried to make the best of the fact that I miss plenty of afternoon activities, four days per week, every week. I've tried to put on a happy face and drive the boy to and from preschool three mornings per week, tried to make sure the shopping list is either taken care of or clearly written in aisle order. I've cooked dinner in the morning about 3 mornings per week, trying to ensure healthy eating choices for both my family and for me (as I am unable to leave work to seek dinner food, let alone healthy pre-diabetic-friendly food). I've managed to keep up with cleaning, not to my usual standards but reasonably well. I've still changed the sheets somewhat frequently, maybe not weekly but not monthly either. I've remembered to shop for the soccer snacks, the preschool snacks, the gifts for Sunday school and other teachers, the special giveaway purchases for birthday parties, the birthday gifts for other kids' parties.

In other words, I have done all I could to make certain that life continued, relatively smoothly, for the boys in my house.

And I, in typical fashion, have been rewarded with apathy, disinterest, and lack of appreciation.

I got together with a friend tonight. A gal pal I used to work with, someone whom I honestly haven't seen in almost 4 years. She was in town. She wanted to meet for a cup of tea. I was excited. Oooh! A friend! I still had them! Yeah, I haven't painted a picture in months, I have no hobbies, I haven't read a book since Christmas, I haven't met any buddies for as long as I can remember, no dates with my husband since last year (because guess who plans those? yep, me)... but ooh! I get to have tea with a friend after work! I made my plans. I made certain it wouldn't be a problem. I was told it wouldn't be. I went. I visited. I had a lovely time for 2 hours, and then I hurried home so I could see my sweet boy before he went to bed.

He gave me the cold shoulder.

My darling son did not act happy to see me. He did not give me a hug. He wanted Daddy to help him brush his teeth. He wanted Daddy to read him a story. He did not want me. I rushed home so I could be slighted by my five-year-old.

Of course, he doesn't realize that the past year has been torturous for me. He doesn't realize that I don't enjoy being the "tidiness nazi" every day but that if I didn't, we would live in filth and ruin. My small child doesn't realize I am the one planning our lives, making the shopping lists, paying bills and budgeting for vacations, remembering his end-of-year program at school. I'm the one who washes his soccer shirt and socks. I'm the one who makes his bed, who marks on the calendar upcoming playdates and birthday parties. I'm the one who vacuums the floors of dirt tracked in, who saves snowballs in the freezer so we can gain free admittance into the science on the first day of summer.

None of that matters. I can't compete with the other parent who is more fun. Who has no chores. Who comes to soccer practice weekly. The person who offers only fun without boundaries, who doesn't have to cook or clean or bank or make boring shopping lists. How can I possibly stand alongside that person in popularity? How can I even begin to measure up when I dare to do laundry, ask for help folding towels and picking up the mess, and then have the audacity to meet one of my own friends for tea? Gosh, if I have a social occasion every four years, I'm doomed to be the least favorite parent for life.

This really sucks. I just said to my friend earlier this evening, "This has been such a hard year because I don't feel like I am doing anything really well." Tonight's lack of support from my own offspring pretty much underlines that whole point. Welcome to motherhood in modern America. Do the job, all your jobs, for less recognition and less respect. Expect nothing. Do more, and get even less.

And oh, by the way: you should also expect to be the less-loved one. Because if you have expectations and an agenda for your family? To quote Yoda: "You will be [the less loved one]. Oh, you will be."