Mothering :: Lessons

Last night I did the unthinkable. I withheld my love from my children. They had completely dismantled a handmade necklace, scattering it in every direction. When I found them it was too late to salvage the piece, bedtime was minutes away and my head was going to explode. Fuming, I yelled for them to get to their room! and then went into my office to try to settle myself. It was Tim’s turn for bedtime and I decided that I was just going to get my yoga things together and leave the house early, give myself a few extra minutes to calm down.

One thing led to another and the early start to class did not happen. But I saw one of the boys run by the window on the outside patio and started to see red again, knowing they were drawing out the already arduous process of bedtime yet again. I yelled, telling them to get back! to their room and get in that bed!. I turned off the light, shut the door and went back to find the ever elusive pieces of yoga that I need for classes. And then I heard it … from their room.

I could hear him crying. Racking sobs, so loud. I knew Tim was in there, that they were not crying out of fear. But even more, I knew exactly what I had done. In my anger I had diliberately ignored our bedtime ritual, the kiss-hug-high five and repeat that happens every night unless we are too far to touch. I had ignored them racing past the window which was the two of them looking for me to say sorry and get that hug-kiss-high five. I had let my anger get the best of me and was hearing the result of it.

I opened the door. Mason was there, devastating tears and deep sobs, Owen just staring at me, closed face and shut down. Both looked at me and I opened my arms and they came into them. I felt their still small bodies burrow into me, I apologized for being so angry and also for being so mean. I apologized for letting my hurt hurt them and then we cuddled and laughed a little and said a proper good night.

Yoga last night was like a purge and a prayer. I have been at the end of my tether in so many ways lately. There are times when being stretched so thin in so many directions feels like it will never end. Sometimes the hardest tether to take is the one of Mother. There is no rest from it, it is a ceaseless demand and a challenging position. Sometimes the tether feels like a noose as they refuse to eat this or cooperate with that or take 10 minutes to usher from car to house or house to car. It is no matter that I have to work or launder or cook or clean, always the Mother part comes first now because it should, because it has to, because they are and so that it how it is.



It struck me as I thought of writing this post that so much of it has to do with what I am mothering. They are children now, unmalleable in many ways. They are assertive and have desires and wants and wishes and ways of giving and holding back now too. They challenge us daily to think of new ways to entice or engage or just get away. They make me worry in a different way as school and reading and learning and Life starts coming in. I am feeling a new fear, unacknowledged until this moment, that I cannot do this. That I don’t know the right way to do this. That I am hurting more than helping, that I am fucking them up.

That feeling has not gone away as I write this, my fears still sit at the back of my throat as we contemplate huge life changes, knowing they will have to go along with any ride we choose. But I know one thing. I am not going to with hold my love from them, no matter what anger sparks from whatever is happening. Because that was a scary thing and it left me feeling empty and them feeling so sad, so sad. Chalk it up to another lesson in the land of Mothering. A good one, an important one, an essential one.

Going to go hug one of my boys now. Lesson learned.

A [Mama's] Day

Camping, Park Play, Ojai, Drive Home ... Sick kids now. But fun while it lasted


Photo credit :: Mace

They turned 4. They turned four and they care so much about good guys and bad guys. They want to defend and rebuild and shoot something. They want to make things and do things and ignore requests and sometimes dance, and sometimes fight and almost never eat.


Mason laughs like me. He also yells like me, with these immediate sharp excalmations of purpose that make everyone jump and run to see if everything is okay. His laugh, his giggle, it is like a silly sunshine that makes your stomach hurt it is so cute. He cannot pronounce 'L' so it comes out like a "y". He wants to be every superhero there is which includes spiderman, batman, green goblin (he is easy on the superhero definition). Also light saber man, trashman and stripeman (his favorite pair of pajamas).

Owen is a force. Of will, of good, of purpose. He can literally disassemble a picnic bence without direction. He can shift a mood from good, to insane, back to good. Because he wants pizza. He understands that people can be good and bad at the same time and he already understands that about me. He cannot stand watching someone be hurt. He also has no compunction about doing the hurting when he is pissed. Which is a lot like me.

They did it. They went and became people despite the fact that we were not sure that we could make people. Well, ones that we like, anyway.

They are lovely and funny and like to pretend that they can save anyone and like to wear three shirts at the same time (especially if those three shirts layer int his order :: batman shirt, spiderman shirt, dinosaur shirt). Mace likes bok choy and told me it makes him strong enough to carry the laundry basket. Owen hates bok choy (or anything green or meat) but will eat the hell out of a peanut(almond)(sunflower) butter and boysenberry sandwich three times a day.


Something somewhere decided that Tim and I should be given two souls at the same time. Two souls encapsulated in the small oddly shaped little people that arrived 4 years ago. Two boys that chose to come with each other because that is what they and we needed. I remember my first reaction was not exactly joy. I think I was kinda' pissed. Something along the lines of 'shit, did not sign up for this'.

They grew on me.

In every way possible.

They have made me. Not better, not mama, not parent. Just made me. Because all that I was before is still here. But all that I am because of them is so much more.

I love you boys, so very very much.

The party was fun and consisted of kids, sugar filled eggs and Legos (and a sweet bebe to squeeze and pass and a Costco sheet cake because of a failed cake experiment at 10 p.m. the night before that included whipping egg whites until stiff and the resulting 3/4 inch tall cake).


I love the way it seems like they are looking at each other in these photos even though the photos are a bit crappy ...



Until next year ... signing off the birthday posts now (with a little sentimental swipe at the eyes).

To Boyhood

We went for a hike yesterday afternoon. It was a lovely day, a well known trail. Top of the aptly named Mountain Avenue, long fire road that can take you for miles and miles if that is what you want.

Yesterday we went up with our boys, no stroller. We have done it before and had to turn around after the first big hill. This time was different. Slow, yes. Water stops for Mace every 15 seconds or so (he seems to love sucking on the Camelbak tube, reminders of bottle days?). There were a few complaints and carrying for a minute or two. But it was a hike.



Mace asked if we could climb the 'yoop' trail so we did, up a steeper single track to a singular view of our valley. Blue blue, green green, dusty rocky brown trail. And the boys were such boys. They were talking and laughing and pulling out some sass. They were watching stink beetles and sticky spiky caterpillars and making the occasional poop and pee remark. And all of a sudden it struck me hard how much they are going, growing, going.

This month they turn 4 ... a few weeks away. I don't know why but I feel like I am losing that last bit of baby, watching them turn total boy on me. I know that they have not been babies for a long long time but now it feels solid, irrevocable. Boys. They can walk the trail without a stroller, handle dressing and potty time and navigating via their makeshift maps.


I don't talk about them much here anymore, certainly not in the ways of past. Not weekly, monthly, hourly even though they are all things to me that they have been. I do not take pictures of their school art often, throw away a good portion of it. I wonder sometimes if I will regret that piece of paper I tossed that they carefully (and not so carefully) painted/glued/scribbled/cut. I do still marvel as their abilities add up, it is just harder to find the time to write it down.


So back to the turning 4. It is freaking me out. It is like a repeat of my freaking out when I turned 35 last year. So I think I just have to let it go. Cuddle them, listen seriously to them, do increasingly more difficult puzzles with them, correct them as we read books and they hit or miss guess at some of the letters, then cuddle them again if they let me.


I don't want to be that mom that mourns the loss of her babies over and over. I want to be present and a mom to the little people that they are becoming. But I will admit to that twinge in my belly, that little bit of sadness I felt as I watched and listened and observed them yesterday on the trail. And coming to the realization that this is parenting ... learning to let go in little and big ways. I may have realized this before in the last almost 4 years but I have a feeling that it will feel new every time it comes ...


I was wondering why I still come to this place to blog. Sometimes it feels as if I toss bits of dribble and dross here and hope for the best. But then there is this feeling and I am glad I have a place to put it.

Today? I put them in the stroller and we walked to the market and taco 'store' and I pushed them both and listened to their chatter and felt better because they are still mine, boys, yes, but most importantly mine.

Your mama loves you, boys. So very very much.

Cookie Maker (get it, Em, get it?)

Now that the sick has gone, I am more than ready to focus on the upcoming holiday. Yay for recovery and the realization post-ick than my normal level of daily energy is more than enough to get things done.

The season of cookie making is upon us and so far this year it has gone quite well. Last year we made sugar cookies, but the recipe was off in some way and less than satisfactory to roll, cut and eat. This year we have had two spot on recipes that have been prepped, rolled and baked with help of some worker elves.



I am loving the simplicity of the sugar cookie recipe from MS magazine this year and it comes with some great ideas to alter the basic recipe. We made the vanilla and chocolate version yesterday. With three under the age of 4. And it actually went well. I think it was due to some pre-planning and a lot of designating.



Things I learned ::

- Set up stations, we had a dry measure station and a mixer station that we moved between. I let the kids measure from a big container of flour and it stayed fun that way. Plus they even helped me clean up.



- Do not let them handle the soft butter. Enough said.

- Also do not let them flip the Kitchenaid switch after adding the flour. Big mess.

- My one Must Do :: Let them taste the dough (Samonella be damned).



- Make the dough, chill it and leave the whole roll out thing until the next day. The attention span of the littles is good for only one step at a time.

The recipes for the vanilla dough is here. It is a Martha recipe, but that is the first link I found. Plus, I am trying not to frequent the MS website too often as it just makes me confused and distracted as to the holiday crafting/creating in my life. Waaaay too many options over there.

The other cookies we made were pre-plague cookies, up at the Cabin actually. Gingerbread cookies. They are again a MS favorite and they are really really good. They also make a load of cookies. The recipe calls for 6 cups of flour. That is a lot of cookies, people. But I never halve the recipe because we always end up eating the first few trays that come out of the oven.


(He looks a little gansta' here, right?)

We had a blast cutting letters into the dough and making some free form snowmen, etc. I have found this dough tastes great at any thickness, the thinner you roll it, the crisper the cookie. Thicker leaves them dense and chewy. And delicious all around.



Come Sunday, all the cookies are to be laid out on a table with frosting and sprinkles and candies and such for the littles to decorate. While the adults curse me for the mess their children will become. Sunday we are having are annual Indonesian lumpia holiday fest. Can I get a what what for fried traditional feast food?

Here is to your healthy cookie-fied deep fried beautiful holiday season. And I am looking to bring a bit of the holiday posting here sooner than later. Wish me luck.

They Might be Giants

It struck me that someday my children will be giants. Some days it seems that they already are.


I held my niece yesterday; 2 days old, 3 pounds bigger than Mason on the day he was born. She felt beyond fragile and her miniature limbs were so delicate and unnatural looking to me. And yet there was that part that recalls marveling over the tininess of their nails and joints and veins. I came home to the boys, reading library books before bed and telling us all about this matter or that matter.


They run now with total confidence, no stutter to their steps. They string together long sentences, convoluted stories full of stutters and vigor. They create from their minds and remind us of events and recall in the morning that they have a planned date with their Grandpa Jim and their excitement knows no bounds.


I love this age, three point five. Everything is so full of meaning and joy. The inevitable period of why? is actually fun (up to a point, of course). The other day we walked in the stroller at twilight and they watched the Moon follow us and could not figure out why it would do that. Then we walked toward it and Mace panicked as he thought it was falling on us. Do you remember when you were young and you thought the same? I recall being in the car and watching the Moon through the window glass, amazed that I was important enough to be followed by a celestial body.


We hiked the other night, up in the hills above our home. It is a completely familiar spot, we know every turn and climb. Over the years we have taken it by foot, bike and Bob stroller. This time the boys hiked 70% of it, running up the fire road and switchback with such gusto. This from Mace, who makes us carry him after a half a city block of walking. I realized they know it as well as Tim and I, that they recognize it as part of Home. We talked about rattlesnakes and stinkbugs and the rare tarantula sighting. I recalled the first time they took this switchback on their toddler feet.


There is no way to deny their boyhood. I don't want to. I am enamored of this age though my spine still shudders at the inevitable whining and rigidity that comes as part of three. I like my kids. That is truly a relief as I have never been a big fan of kids in general.

They will be giant to me some day. But for right now I think I will savor them just as they are.

Fall Here, Fall Where?

We are having a terribly schizophrenic Fall with temperatures that are bouncing from the 100s to the 50s with not much middle ground. I am not a big fan. I know that the seasons seem hard to seperate in Southern Calfornia but this is getting a bit ridiculous.

We tried to feel Fall-ish last week by heading up to Oak Glen, a little foothill enclave of a town where they grow apples and host a few small family farms.



The weather accomodated by staying a bit on the chilly but bright side. The boys actually needed to wear the hoodies they had on (though Mace threw an awful fit when we tried to get him to wear a pair of pants)(They happened to be a pair of pants I sewed for him and so I felt a little miffed).



Just the mere act of getting together and going somewhere special helped the season come a bit more into focus and though we skipped bringing home a apple pie (it was freaking 14$...woah, right?) we did bring home a bag of apples and some shots that I think are destined for the next Christmas card.


There was a tiny stone building open for tours, the old school house. It was well preserved and charming and managed by two little autocratic elderly German ladies (one of which kept thrusting an old 3D view finder into the faces of all entering. That was a little weird). The boys loved it, carefully seating themselves at the old wood desks, shuffling the little wooden dominoes and looking more than a little like school boys.


Life has been almost a schizo as the weather lately. I am coming off a three week stint of working full time and feeling grateful for the extra income, but also aware of how freaking ridiculously hard it is to work full time and mother and make life happen. I was glad to have the opportunity to make the extra money and glad to see this Friday come as it marked the end to the 40 hour work week.

And so, today, I spent sewing and with a 'picnic' in the park gathering some brilliant leaves with the boys and walking them in the stroller (a very rare occurence these days) and I feel as if something has decompressed. I made a doll, I made a dinner and I made a faux pregnant belly for a friend for a late Halloween party and I am ready to call it a day and throw that 30 Rock Season 2 DVD in and relax with the husband.

Sometimes I marvel at how the mundane in my life feels so much more like living than other parts.

Just like I marvel that it was 98 yesterday, and it's going to be 65 tomorrow. I prefer the 65. We get to wear more hoodies and hats and that makes us all look cuter.

A Month of Me :: 15 (But really 14)

So the prompt read something like "A hero that has let you down" "write them a letter". Jeez. Like any hero needs to hear a letter about their failings. I bet they never asked to be a hero in the first place.

Origin:
1605–15; back formation from ME heroes (pl.) < L hērōs (sing.), hērōes (pl.) < Gk hḗrōs, hḗrōes



I took Latin for four years in high school. This does not make me a hero. Just a dork. But it always makes me curious about the origin of the words we casually toss about on a daily basis. Or use on a stale prompt (that as I read through the rest of the questions just seems to get staler) (Is that a word? Stale-r. Hmmm).

Anyways, heroes should not have to read letters about the letting down of others. Instead I think we should all consider ourselves heroes of something or another. Unless you are bad and mean and act in nefarious criminal ways that do not resemble Robin Hood. Then you should not reach for the status of Hero.

So, the root of the word is to sing. Because someone sings their praises; you cannot be a hero without a story, right? But we are all so unsung in our lives in so many ways.

I have to admit that this post is coming from a place of reading other blog posts today. I have highly censored myself in the world online blog reading because my involvement in the 'craft' as it is tends towards the 'taking things too personally' when I read posts that strike a nerve, not a chord. these today happened to be of a few brand new mommas totally blissing out on the first few days of their child's birth. Which is awesome. Believe me, if you can bliss and birth, that is awesome. And if you can take amazing pictures in sepia tone when it is happening, even more so.

But it made me thing about heroic people in my life right now. And they are not a totally unsung lot, I mean they have their own website and stuff, but man, newbie twin parents should get a totally awesome letter about how despite the fact that they always feel like they are letting someone down (because they have two)(or more sometimes) they get through it. They sometimes miss the perfect newborn pictures and deal with complications and small babies and feeding issues and coordinating sleep and juggling responsibilities and giving each child enough and never really getting that 'me' time in the beginning and, uh, did I mention, two? But they do it.

And sometimes they blog about it and sometimes they don't. But they do it.

And that makes them heroes in my eyes that actually deserve a letter telling them that they have not let anyone down. Not one of their children. Not older siblings or ones that follow. They were just introduced into a class of Hero that they may never have considered, well, Heroic.

Escape from Hades

What to do when temperatures reach past the triple digit mark and rocket past 110? Get the Hell out of Dodge.

We spent Saturday in Dana Point at our new favorite spot aptly called Baby Beach. Super sheltered and waveless, lots of grass and shade, ice cream and clean sand and blissfully cool ocean. It was the right place to be. Another plus ... I only saw about 4 moms with "Banging post-baby beach body", the rest looked human like me.

Of course, now it is Tuesday in our sweltering valleys and we skip from cooled car to library to school to home and avoid direct contact with the Sun. They say it is going to cool down but I am not sure I believe them.

Some of my favorite moments here ::



*** Drip castles that were built and then smashed. At one point Mason declared them Cow Poop Castles.

*** Helicopter swinging the boys in and out of the sea then watching them lurch around in the shallow water.

*** Ice cream cones bigger than them. Watching Owen almost finish his without help.

*** Meeting my parents and enjoying fried chicken and Doritoes on the grass.

It is rare that I wish we lived closer to the sea but this week is the exception. Ugh.

And something almost as ridiculous as the temperatures...


I had to take a picture, it was just so weird. And they stayed there for hours. Without skin protection (Shudder).

Ah, Youth

You know, sometimes you see pictures of yourself and you see those limbs that used to bend and flex so loosely, the same limbs you see on your own children now and you wonder that your own body could have ever been that free, that open.




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And then you wake up every morning feeling like you have a slight hangover and your feet hit the earth and you cry out a little in pain as you hobble to the bathroom, gently stretching out the low back that twinges as you bend.



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You keep going to those gym classes, the ones with the pulsing beat music as your light weights change from 3.5# to 5# then 7.5# and you feel stronger and powerful. But still a little thick.


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You decide that the number doesn't really matter, the 5 that will follow the 3...feel silly and indulgent. Then you look at those pictures again, on the same cul-de-sac that your children now play. And know that their loose supple limbs rest in the very same room your tiny ones once did. And sometimes you still rest there too but those limbs now cramp or go to sleep when they are flung over your head in sleep.






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You wonder about the way photos capture the wonder of youth... the easy way the knees locked without pain, the swing swung without fear of jumping and the thud of the feet.




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And you joke with your parents over coffee that someday, not too far from this moment, your children may be driving their Omi and Opa around because they cannot. Or maybe even driving me.


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