Category Archives: Motherhood

The ‘I Love You’ Rule

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My husband is not a morning person. When our children were babies, I envied his ability to sleep through their crying, something my bionic mommy hearing wouldn’t allow me to do. A decade or so later, long past the years of late-night feedings and baby monitors, he still dozes peacefully through my 6 a.m. alarm until his own clock starts buzzing an hour or so later.

Since their father is rarely up before they leave for school, it surprised and pleased our children to see him heading downstairs at 6:30 yesterday morning. They were already bundled in their coats with backpacks in hand, waiting for their ride to band practice. My husband settled in next to me on the couch, and we all cuddled together for a few minutes.

As the kids walked out the door, we told them we loved them as we always do when we say goodbye. It’s an unspoken rule in our family to say “I love you” whenever we part ways or end a phone call. I never coached the kids to say it; they just did, and still do.

After they left, I asked my husband why he was up so early. Was he worried, as I was, about them going back to school after what had happened at Sandy Hook Elementary? He said no. In the same way he can sleep through baby monitors and alarm clocks, he can push tragic events to the back of his mind. When he finds it too painful to think about something, he doesn’t. It may have been a coincidence that he was up early, but our kids still received an extra hug, kiss and “I love you” from their father on a day when these things especially mattered.

It was comforting to have my husband take part in our morning goodbyes yesterday, but I don’t mind being the one who gets up with our kids. As they grow older and the world in which we live becomes less certain and more frightening, I embrace the chance to connect with them before they leave the safety of home and family. While they eat breakfast, I help pack their lunches and we talk about their plans for the day. Some mornings they are talkative, others they don’t say much at all. But I am there if they need me, and that makes it easier to watch them go.

My husband may not be a morning person, but he has no problem handling bedtime. He has always been part of the night-time ritual, helping with baths and reading books. As our kids grew older, I eased myself out of the routine, letting him take over the night shift. Even now, at ages 11 and 13, they still ask him to tuck them into bed, and I do it when he isn’t home. Before we leave their rooms, we kiss and hug them goodnight, and we say “I love you.” It doesn’t matter who says it first; one of us always does. We know the rule.

Image source: Fireside-Home.com

How Lovely Are Your Branches

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I don’t remember placing a single ornament on our first ever artificial Christmas tree last year, not even the ones I bought for each of my children. I don’t recall shopping for gifts, wrapping them in patterned paper and shiny bows, or placing them under the tree. I have no idea what we made for the family dinner we hosted on Christmas Eve. I’m certain we did these things. I have the photographic evidence to prove it. But I have no memories.

Last year my aunt, who raised me and was a grandmother to my children, died four days before Christmas. She had been ill with pneumonia since Thanksgiving and passed away shortly after her 92nd birthday. Given her age, frailty and poor health, her death was a blessing. But that didn’t make it any easier for her children, grandchildren and all those who loved her to let her go.

The weeks surrounding my aunt’s death were a numb blur, and the holidays became something to endure rather than enjoy. I can see it in my glassy eyes and forced smile in a photograph of my husband and me that I don’t recall being taken on Christmas Eve. It appears that I put on the “happy mommy” show as best I could for my family, but it was as phony as our new tree.

After the holidays, we packed up the 12-foot, pre-lit tree, which my husband hated and hadn’t wanted to buy in the first place. He swore we’d get a real tree next Christmas.  I don’t remember caring too much one way or another about the tree being artificial. I just didn’t want to look at it anymore.

As the weeks and months passed and took us further away from Christmas, my numbness faded. It may not be the nature of grief to release us entirely, but it does slowly loosen its grip. The darkness gradually lifts, and the good days, so fleeting initially, grow more frequent. The ghosts of our memories move to the outskirts of our thoughts, and we focus on those who remain before us. We remember to feel, we remember to live, and we desire to do both.

This year my husband tried to convince me to get a real tree, but I wanted to give “Tree-hemoth” a second chance. I even managed to talk him into putting it up the week after Thanksgiving, which is early for last-minute holiday non-planners like us. The door of my home office stays open all day so I can admire my glimmering fake fir.

I am feeling festive without pretending, but I haven’t deluded myself into expecting a picture-perfect holiday. I know there will be stress, and some things will go wrong. I will miss my aunt and everyone else who is no longer with us or cannot be here. But I’m ready to make new, happy memories with my family. My smile in this year’s photo will be real.

Beautiful Girl

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Always smiling and laughing, then and now.

When I had my son, and for the next almost two years, I thought nothing could compare with the experience of being a mother to that sweet little boy. Until I saw my daughter’s platinum blond hair, hooded hazel eyes and tiny button nose for the first time. The song playing in the hospital suite when she was born couldn’t have been more perfect: “Beautiful Girl” by INXS.

Before I had you, my beautiful girl, I thought I could never love another baby as much as your brother. You proved me wrong. Here are some of the countless reasons I love you:

  1. One of my favorite early memories of you was the first time you let out that sweet, infectious belly laugh of yours. Don’t ever stop laughing like that. It’s priceless.
  2. You may only be 11 years old, but you are one of the most fearless people I know. When you were a toddler, we called you “Danger Girl” and for good reason: Your chart at the doctor’s office was three times as thick as your brother’s. As your mom, I sometimes worry about your risk-taking nature, but I’m in awe of it as well. I hope you will always take chances.
  3. You are a loyal, loving friend. It gives me so much joy to see how many of your peers adore you and treasure your company. You seem to intrinsically know how to make and maintain friendships, and that is something your far less social mom really admires about you.
  4. You don’t gossip or speak ill of others. I have never heard you say a bad word about anyone (well, except your brother, and you said it to his face). You remind me so much of my grandmother in that way, and my dad. Don’t let anyone change that about you.
  5. You have so much self-confidence. It astounds me how you just jump into things without hesitating. If you have any self-doubt whatsoever, you never let it show. I want to bottle your confidence and save it for later in your life. My hope is that you won’t need it.
  6. You are self-sufficient and independent. I don’t know if it’s because I was working part-time from home when you came along, but you have always been able to take care of yourself and find ways to stay busy. I think that’s at least part of why you are such a happy, well-adjusted person.
  7. You are creative and talented. From the time you were a toddler, you were always making things. It used to be finger paints and Play-Doh; now it’s cupcake baking and duct tape art. I hope you will explore and expand your creative side throughout your life.
  8. You are a great conversationalist. You definitely, and thankfully, take after your father in this department. You know how to talk to people, and you truly listen when others are speaking.
  9.  You don’t worry about what other people think. You are my little spitfire, full of fun and goofiness. You know how to have a good time and you always do. Life is way too short to worry about looking silly. I hope you never will.
  10. Your capacity to love is endless. You welcome and enjoy everyone you meet, and I couldn’t be more proud of your huge heart. Never stop letting love in, sweet girl. It’s what makes life worth living.

Today is the last day of NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month). It was my first time participating, and blogging daily for 30 days was a pretty crazy experience. But I did it, darn it! And there’s the badge below to prove it. Cheers to all my fellow NaBloPoMo-ers! 

My Sweet Boy

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Six months ago, my 13-year-old son got angry with me for complaining about his teenage attitude here. What I was really talking about was that I didn’t want him to grow up. Still, I decided to respect his privacy and not write about him anymore. All was well and good until I wrote about a walk I took with his sister and the meal she made with their father.

My son’s response: “Why don’t you ever write about me?”

Truth is, I have wonderful things to say about him and the person he is. I just haven’t written about them because I didn’t want to embarrass him.

Well, kid, you asked for it … Here are just a few of the many reasons I love you:

  1. You are whip-smart, witty and downright hilarious. But you’re also sweet, gentle and compassionate.
  2. We have a connection that goes beyond firstborn and mother. I truly enjoy your company and our friendship. I hope we always have it.
  3. I see my father in you and my grandmother — two of the people I loved most. You are an old soul, a quiet observer with a caring heart.
  4. You are wise beyond your years, and you keep me on my toes with your ideas and questions. Sometimes I honestly have no clue what you are talking about, but I love learning from you.
  5. When I am edgy or sad and think no one can tell, you notice. You see the things others miss and you care enough to ask about them. You will make some lucky girl a fabulous husband someday.
  6. You will also be a wonderful father. You are patient with and kind to little kids. They love you because you take the time to interact with them.
  7. You are an exceptionally gifted musician. When you play the piano, it makes my heart ache. All the passion you feel comes out in your playing.
  8. You worry about your little sister and you look out for her at school. Even though you two fight like crazy much of the time, you are a loyal and loving brother.
  9. You tell me you love me whenever you say goodbye — in person or on the phone, and even when your friends around. Don’t stop doing that. Ever.
  10. I never thought I would have kids, but suddenly I wanted one. It’s as if I knew you were coming and how wonderful you would be. Thank you for changing my life and being the best son I could ever have.

My little sweetheart on his first birthday. He just woke up from a nap and wasn't quite ready to party.

Wordless Wednesday: Walkin’ With My Baby

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I took a long walk yesterday for the first time in ages, and my youngest went with me. Her 11-year-old legs had a hard time maintaining my adult pace, so she jogged a little here and there to stay by my side. I know I’ll soon be struggling to keep up with her as she grows into a teenager and then a young woman. Our relationship will change, and so will the moments we have together. Some will be bad, some will be good. All will be different.

I will remember that walk yesterday, her innocence, her curiosity, her laugh, and those little legs trying to keep up with mine.

The Bad Wife

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I dreaded my husband’s business trips when our kids were young. Parenting alone for a few days several times a month left me in need of therapy, a vacation, or at the very least a case of wine and a visit from the fairy housekeeper. I missed his help more than his company when he traveled back then. Perhaps that sounds coldhearted and selfish, but anyone who has single-handedly wrangled a baby or toddler will understand.

Nope. That's not me. (Image source: TVRage.com)

In the tween and teen years, parenting alone is trying but manageable. The angst, attitude and backtalk stress me out, but at least my kids are old enough that I can reason with them some of the time. And because they are independent and more or less self-sufficient, this mother’s work actually is done at the end of the day. When my husband is away now, I miss his company because I do fine without his help, usually at least.

His latest trip has been a different experience for us here at home. One of our kids is having a tough time, and life has been more than a little challenging. (As much as I would like to talk about it here, I can’t, because I have to respect my child’s privacy. I’m starting to understand why people blog anonymously. Self-censorship sucks.) In light of our struggles, you would think I would want my husband here with me.

Instead I’m enjoying a few days of freedom. There’s nothing sordid to tell. I haven’t been out boozing, gambling or carousing — at least not yet. Actually, I’ve been home every night since he left.

I’m a bad wife not because of anything I’ve done while he’s away but because I’m relieved that he’s gone.

For the past few days, I haven’t worried a bit about being unemployed for the past four months. While the kids are at school, I write and work out at my leisure because he isn’t here to see me slacking. In the evenings, I relax on the couch in front of the TV without a twinge of regret because he isn’t still working in his office upstairs. I do whatever the hell I want, when I want, and I revel in it.

I’m a bad wife because even though my husband has supported me lovingly and completely ever since I lost my job, I still think I’ve let him down. He’s given me no reason to feel this way, none whatsoever. It’s all in my insecure, delusional head. He wants me to be able to relax and do the things that make me happy. Instead, I’ve relegated myself to serf status in my own home because I think I am not carrying my weight financially.

I’m a bad wife for the same reasons I’m a good mother: I would rather give support than receive it. I want to be the caregiver not the patient. I want to heal my family’s wounds, while ignoring my own. If I want to be a good wife who is worthy of my even better husband, I have to allow him to take care of me a little. I have to admit I need the emotional Band-Aid of someone telling me it will all be OK.

This bad wife could really use a good husband right now. Thank goodness he comes home tomorrow.

A Pre-Apocalyptic Bucket List for the Soul

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On the way to school this morning, my 13-year-old son reminded me that the world is going to end Dec. 21. Of course he was kidding, but we decided it might be a good idea to plan a party for Dec. 20 just in case. I don’t know about you, but if the Mayans (or the folks who misinterpreted when their calendar ends) were correct, I have a lot to do in the next 38 days. The good news is we can at least scratch Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa shopping off our lists, right?

Here’s my challenge to you: Write a list of the top 10 things you wish you could change about or accomplish for yourself before you die. I’m not talking about skydiving or mountain climbing here. Let’s call it a bucket list for the psyche.

Here’s mine:

  1. Let go of past hurts. I can forgive, but I have a lot of trouble with the forgetting part. Dwelling on things doesn’t hurt anyone but me … and my husband, who gets stuck listening to me obsess.
  2. Love and be proud of my body. I’ve spent 45 years on this one so far, and I haven’t made much progress. I’d like to learn to look in the mirror and at photographs of myself and see the good parts instead of the bad. (Disclaimer: I don’t voice my body image issues in front of my daughter. It’s not healthy for me to force my saddle — I mean, emotional — baggage on her, and I recognize that.)
  3. Quit being an easy target. I wear my heart on my sleeve and always have. I don’t think this is necessarily a bad thing, but I never learned how to fight back verbally or physically. Melting into a pool of emotional mush doesn’t work out so well. Take my word for it.
  4. Stop yelling at my kids. Strangely, this correlates with No. 3. My kids don’t listen the first three or four times I say something because they don’t take me seriously. Until I yell, that is. Then they get upset with me for raising my voice and shout back. Then I yell louder. It’s a vicious, and headache inducing, circle, and I hate it.
  5. Be a better friend. I have let so many relationships fade over the past 13 or so years. I know it’s a copout to blame it on having kids, but I do, at least to a certain extent. At the end of a crazy, busy day, the last thing I want to do is pick up the phone or even compose an email. I want quiet, peace. And as a result of my lack of effort, I’ve lost track of a lot of people I truly love and miss.
  6. Call my sister more. This goes back to No. 5 and the fact that I despise talking on the phone. But that’s a lame excuse. Our parents are both gone and it’s just us (and our wayward brother; see No. 7). My sister lives alone, and I know she would love to hear from the kids and me more.
  7. Reconnect with my brother. He’s a lost soul who has been in and out of trouble over the years. He has issues I don’t feel comfortable sharing publicly without his permission. But he was always good to me, and I love and miss him like crazy.
  8. Listen more. To my husband, to my kids, to my friends. But most of all to myself. If I listened to my inner voice a little more often, I think No. 1 would be much less of a problem. I tend to overlook bad first instincts about a person, thinking that everyone deserves a chance. Maybe some people don’t, or I just need to learn to give up sooner.
  9. Let people in. I’ve experienced a lot of loss in my life. I hate when people leave me, so I put up walls to keep them out in the first place. I guess that’s why No. 1 is such a problem. When I actually do let someone in and he or she hurts me, I’m emotionally devastated and I can’t let it go. Ugh. This is the thing that drives me the craziest about myself, but I think it’s also one of the hardest to fix. I for sure haven’t had much luck in the past four-and-a-half decades.
  10. Seize the day. It’s been a tough year (death, job loss, etc.). I lost my positive mojo and confidence somewhere along the way, and I need to find it. After all, the clock is ticking.

 So what’s on your psyche’s bucket list?

Bad Case of Sunday Blues

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I remember sitting on the couch as a child, happily playing with my Colorforms or Barbies, when suddenly a wave of fear and sadness would wash over me. It was Sunday evening, and the clock was ticking away to the end of the weekend. I could feel the dread in the pit of my stomach as I anticipated the events of the next day.

Monday meant leaving the safety and comfort of home for the scary uncertainty of school. Would the mean girl on the bus who was twice my size tell me she hated me and glare at me from across the aisle? Would I get in trouble with the teacher for talking too much in class? Would the queen bee of the playground welcome me into the fold or would I wind up alone on the swingset?

I hated Sunday because it meant Monday was coming, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Even though it’s no longer me who has to face school in the morning, I still dread Monday’s arrival. Monday means my kids venture out into the world where I have no control over their safety or comfort. What if the carpool driver or bus taking them to school gets into an accident? What if they fail a test? What if they are excluded at the lunch table? These thoughts plague me every day as they walk out the door, but especially on Monday.

Why are Mondays the hardest? After the kids head off to school, my husband goes to work, and it’s just me and the dog at home. My abandonment issues kick into high gear because after spending two days with the three people I love the most, they all leave me behind. It sounds silly, I know. They have to go, and it’s not as if they aren’t coming back. Mondays just make me realize how much I hate it when they’re gone.

I have yet to come up with a way to make the Sunday blues disappear entirely, but spending the evening together as a family definitely helps. Usually the four of us hang out in the kitchen and make a special dinner. We try to come up with a new recipe or we make something that requires extra time and isn’t conducive to our weeknight schedule crunch.

After a Sunday evening of laughing, talking and eating with my family, Monday doesn’t feel quite so ominous. The family bonding makes it a little easier when everyone walks out the door the next morning. But I still can’t wait for them all to come home.

Do you suffer from “Sunday night syndrome”? How do you cope?

Why Moms Shouldn’t Start Mosh Pits

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A few weeks ago, I went to my first all-ages show in probably 20 years. My husband’s band, The Bishop, was playing in a battle of the bands at Reggie’s Music Joint in Chicago, and I, being his ever-faithful groupie, went along for the ride.

His band had played at Reggie’s before, and I fell in love with the place immediately. The bar and its patrons brought back fond memories of all the punk clubs I frequented in Detroit during my teen years (I mean, after I was 21, if my kids are reading this). Dyed black hair, tattoos, black leather, ripped denim, clove cigarettes. I felt right at home, although I’m sure I looked completely out of place. It’s not that I’m altogether uncool. I have my moments. But I’m a mom. And I’m 45. Enough said.

The good thing about being in your forties is you finally stop worrying about what other people think and let yourself go. The bad thing is when you let yourself go too far. And that is exactly what happened during our next visit to Reggie’s.

I was excited to go back to the bar and revel in nostalgia once again. What I didn’t know until a few days before the gig, however, was that it was an all-ages show. This rattled my nerves — and more than just a bit. It’s one thing to hang out in a dive rock joint with young adults, but teenagers? I have one of my own at home, and I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t want to be seen with his mother, or anyone her age, at such an establishment (thankfully he is only 13 and this is not yet an issue).

Do you know what it’s like to be a mom in a roomful of kids with blue hair, tattoos, mohawks and ear expanders? Unless your name is Courtney Love or Sharon Osborne, I’m guessing the answer is no. I immediately assumed the role of lunchroom monitor and found myself worrying about whether these kids would be up past their bedtimes. It was a Sunday after all, a school night.

Courtney Love, I am not. (Source: PacificCoastNews.com)

The good thing about being nervous in a bar: alcohol. The bad thing about being nervous in a bar: alcohol. Several craft beers and death metal bands into the show, I made what seemed like a perfectly reasonable decision: I started a mosh pit.

What, you may ask, was a suburban mom doing participating in a mosh pit, let alone starting one? I’m not exactly sure, honestly. My best answer is that my inner teenager took over. My worst answer is that I was experiencing a temporary midlife crisis. Either way, I ended up on my ass in the middle of the dance floor in a bar full of death metal kids.

I learned two things about myself that night. First, I’m far too old, and clumsy, to mosh. Second, I’m just old enough to be able to laugh at myself when I do something stupid. Believe me, I laughed my (very sore) ass off over this one for days.

I Got a Rock

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I’ve always been a Halloween girl. My birthday is Oct. 28, so I guess that’s not a surprise. I couldn’t wait to dress up and trick or treat as a kid. I never missed “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown” and could even recite more than a few of the lines. Now, as a 45-year-old mom, I love to experience all the ghoulish glories of my favorite holiday vicariously through my children.

Or at least I used to.

I made their costumes by hand (well, I did one year anyway). I covered my shrubs in cobwebs and planted tombstones and skulls in my flowerbeds. Mummies, skeletons and giant spiders welcomed visitors on our porch. The living room looked as if Frankenstein had vomited pumpkins, ghosts and witches all over it. Not a spot in the house went undecorated. Halloween was everywhere.

My little Indian chief, age 3, in his handmade (by Mom) costume

My little princess, age 2 (did I mention I made her costume?)

But this year was different.

I only dug out one bin of decorations from the basement (I have at least five). The porch featured three Pottery Barn-esque clay jack-o’-lanterns and a tasteful copper skeleton. I left the cobwebs to nature, and Frankenstein never even made it out of the crawlspace.

It’s hard to feel, well, Halloween-y when your kids reach the tween and teen years. They want to trick or treat alone or at least at a distance. First you are relegated to the end of the block; eventually you aren’t even asked to tag along.

This year my 13-year-old wandered the neighborhood with his horde of fellow hoodlums, I mean, teenagers. My 11-year-old trick-or-treated and partied with her best friend’s family. And my husband and I stayed at home to hand out candy.

I have to admit that I was more than a little bummed to be left out of the holiday revelry. I wore my hot pink skull T-shirt. I stocked my cauldron with fun-size chocolate bars. But I just wasn’t feeling it.

Until 15 teenage girls and boys descended upon our house.

Don’t worry. They were invited. My husband and I skipped the Halloween fun this year so our son could host an after-party. Chaperoning is far less exciting than partying, but it was a great group of kids and we didn’t have any problems. The kids exchanged candy and ate pizza. I think there may even have been a game of Truth or Dare in the basement. But of course I can’t be certain because I never, ever spied on them.

Who am I kidding? Of course I did a little spying. I was thrilled to overhear more than one of the kids say they had a great time, and someone actually told my son his parents were cool.

It was a very different Halloween this year. It wasn’t all about me. In fact, it wasn’t at all about me. But my teenager and his friends had an awesome night.

You know what, Charlie Brown? I’ll take that rock.